


The Stablehand

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, Horses, M/M, Romance, vet procedure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the following kinkme_merlin prompt: <i></i><br/>Merlin gets a new job at the Pendragon mansion: He is supposed to care for the horses and keep the stables clean. He doesn't really care about the Pendragons and doesn't spend a lot of time in the mansion, so he has no idea what Arthur Pendragon actually looks like. One day he catches Arthur feeding an apple to one of the horses and mistaking him for the new stable boy, he starts lecturing him about slacking off and orders him to muck out the stable.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Arthur, for whatever reason you can come up with, just goes along with it. And he keeps coming back, never correcting Merlin in his false assumptions, until he's in too deep. Because he's afraid that Merlin would suddenly hate him, if he knew the truth (because Merlin certainly seems to hate everything about the Pendragons, especially all the rumors he hears about Arthur), he does everything to prevent Merlin from finding out. Naturally that leads to a lot of awkward and weird situations.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stablehand

On his way to the stables, Merlin whistles softly, chirping out the same notes again and again because he can't remember how the rest of the song goes. It's a nice day, the sun's shining overhead and he has no reason not to feel perky.

When he gets to the doors, he sets the pail he's been carrying down and slips off the bolt holding the stables doors closed. He's a few steps inside, the overhead window bathing the central aisle coasting the stalls in white light, when he zeroes in on a figure standing by Hengroen's.

The person is enveloped in shadows, but thanks to some measure of squinting Merlin can tell that he's dealing with a man, a man roundabout Merlin's height but of stronger build. The man in question is feeding Mr Pendragon's finest stallion something.

Being relatively new, Merlin may never have met Mr Pendragon himself, but he does know that you don't fuck with the owner's horses. Gaius, who's the steward here at Pendragon Manor, has impressed that notion very firmly in his skull by way of continued repetition.

Apparently, the horses are all, but especially such a thoroughbred as Hengroen, on a special diet devised by a professional.

So at sight of this act of semi-sabotage, alarm courses through Merlin. Unless this unscheduled feeding moment is cut short, Merlin may be at risk of losing his job. And while this job may entail some servile grovelling on his part –- he has a whole hierarchy of bosses that falls short of Uther Pendragon himself to refer to –- Merlin quite likes it. It's paid well enough to tidy him over for a while and it gets him working with horses. “Oi,” Merlin therefore says, “you, stop that.”

The man startles, dropping what looks like an apple, and turns around.

Now that he's bathed in the light coming in from the window Merlin can tell this man is both extremely hot – blond, chiselled features, muscular – and dressed for a jaunt to the stables, down to a pair of well worn riding boots. The man's clothes and gear taken into account, Merlin judges he must be the new stablehand Gaius promised him two weeks ago and that had failed to materialise since.

Still agape from being called out for his faux pas, the stablehand takes a few seconds to master his features. Once he has shed his confusion, the man says, “Why did you tell me to stop? I was just feeding him an apple. He likes it.” The man directs a gentle smile at Hengroen.

“That's because Hen there is on a special fancy diet,” Merlin says, lifting the bucket containing Hengroen's food. “And can only eat what his vet prescribed him.”

The new stablehand voices Merlin's feelings for him when he scoffs and says, “But that's ridiculous. He's a horse. Horses like apples.”

“Well,” says Merlin, walking up to Hen's stall so he can feed the poor beast the vetted food. “Tell that to those pretentious toffs that are the owners.”

The stablehand's arches an inquisitive eyebrow, looking at Merlin with his head tilted sideways. He hums for a few seconds, then a frown creases his brow and, hands on his hips, he says primly, “I don't think you should be speaking of the owners like that.”

Merlin opens Hengroen's stall, beams at the horse (he's secretly Merlin's favourite), rubs his neck, causing him to nuzzle Merlin's face, and puts the pail with his grain-dense meal down. “Why? I owe them my time, not my thoughts.”

The stablehand's frown deepens. “Don't you think you owe some loyalty to those who put food on your table?”

Merlin laughs both at the stablehand’s words and because Hengroen has just breathed against him. “You'll learn in time that it's not as easy as that.” Knowing he shouldn't expound his political theories to the newbies, epecially when they both have better things to do, he stops talking. But then he thinks, 'what the heck, they share same plight', and ploughs over. This man needs a little bit of a friendly nudge towards having a more realistic view of the job market considering that he till thinks they owe their employers more than standard contract services. “The rich... the rich act as though they own you,” Merlin says, eyes locking on Hengroen's lowering his head to the pail rather than on the stablehand. “Don't let them, okay?”

Merlin hears the stablehand's loud intake of breath. “You really think that rich people are bad people, don't you?”

Merlin glances up and takes in the stablehand's confused, thoughtful face, and the way he's sucking his lower lip in. “Yeah, I do, but don't tell that to the bosses,” he says, giving his voice a funny lilt to break the tension he feels ratcheting up.

The stablehand’s smile is nervous, the nerves probably caused by a topic that could cost them both the job, but it's there. “I promise I won't,” he says seriously, but also almost conspiratorially.

“Good,” Merlin says, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “As humourless as they say Uther Pendragon is, I don't want to get the sack. I love horses.”

“I can see that,” the stablehand says, with an appreciative smile and a head tilt towards Hen. “He loves you.”

Merlin watches Hengroen eat and smiles at sight of the healthy horse. “I haven't been here long,” Merlin says, remembering the month leading up to this moment, “but I think we've made friends.”

“He's recalcitrant, haughty and not particularly fond of most humans,” the stablehand says assessingly, then continues with a touch of wonder to his voice, “what you achieved is in itself a miracle.”

“So now you've psycho-analysed Hen in the time it takes to feed him an apple?” Merlin asks, voice climbing to stress how improbable he finds the stablehand's interpretation of Hengroen's character.

The stablehand clears his throat and takes a step back. “Well, no,” he says quickly. “It was just an impression. That's all.”

Merlin nods his head. That's more reasonable by far. “Well, let's say I think you've got his personality right,” Merlin says, leaning his hip against the stall's partition. “Reading horses right is a good starting point for someone who wants to work as a stablehand, believe me.”

“Stablehand?” the stablehand parrots, scrunching up his nose.

Merlin snorts. “Do they have fancier PC names for them these days?”

“Not that I know of, no,” the stablehand says, his forehead puckering.

“Well, then,” Merlin says, handing the stablehand a pitchfork. “Now that we've established you're fine with the down to earth denomination of your job, how about getting on with it?”

The stableboy's hand closes around the pitchfork's handle. After which they're at a bit of a standstill. The man stays rooted there, the pitchfork Merlin gave him planted at his side, his mouth open in a round of confusion. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Merlin knows that first days can be a bit tragic. On his he couldn't find Llamrei's tack and used the wrong brush on Badgemagus. But the new stablehand's failure to grasp as easy a concept as that of pitchforking manure seems worrying. “Mucking this place out?”

“Oh,” the stablehand says, complexion going greener for a moment. “Sure. I'm... I'm going to go over there and start... shovelling muck.”

The stablehand does as he's promised. He moves to a corner and starts moving his pitchfork about, spreading manure around more than cleaning up.

Merlin palms his forehead. “Okay, okay, I can see this is your first time in a stable,” he says, striding over and taking the pitchfork from the new employee. “I think I'd better show you how it's done,” Merlin adds, correctly using the pitchfork to give the newbie an idea of what he's to do. “But you should try and learn if you want to keep the job.”

“Yes, sir,” says the new stablehand in a tone Merlin judges amused.

The address though reminds Merlin that he should introduce himself. “I'm Merlin, by the way.”

“Arthur,” says the stabl hand, offering a hand Merlin can't shake because his own are busy. “Arthur Pe--” Arthur stops in the middle of telling his surname, then he shifts from foot to foot, licks his lips and says, “Pevensey.”

Merlin smiles and gives the pitchfork back to Arthur. “Really? Like the Pevensey children from that Narnia book?”

Finally getting down to his duties, Arthur starts picking up the wet bedding and loading it onto the nearest wheelbarrow. “Um, yeah.”

Not about to quibble more about the man's name, Merlin nods, then seeing as he's wasting time himself, he walks back to Hengroen's stall. There, he bridles Hengroen, securing the end of the check rein around his palm, and leads him out so Arthur can clean after him.

That sets the trend for the day.

They spend the morning working in the stable; with Merlin looking after the horses because he has seniority and that's more pleasant than disposing of manure and with Arthur doing the yucky stuff.

They have lunch together, or rather they share Merlin's because Arthur doesn't seem to have brought any. He isn't loath to but he does remind Arthur that he should think of these things from now on if he doesn't want to get to the end of his shift famished.

In the afternoon Merlin goes back inside with the intention of showing Arthur how to groom and saddle the mounts. To his surprise he finds out Arthur's not bad at it all.

For all his being rather terrible with pitchfork and wheelbarrow, Arthur's gifted when it comes to horses. Not only has he got Hengroen saddled in under three minutes but he's also a daft hand at soothing him when he gets testy. He 'ohs' and 'ahs' and looks the thoroughbred in the eyes, showing him he means no harm.

He certainly has a way with the creatures.

Merlin's so pleased with that that he says, “Now I know why they hired you.”

“Do you?” Arthur asks, petting Hengroen and getting some affection from the horse in return.

“Yeah,” Merlin admits. “You're good at that.”

Arthur cranes his head to look back at him. “I like horses too, you know. They're noble creatures.”

Merlin nods in understanding.

With Arthur watching and Merlin supervising they share a silence that is amicable and pleasant. It lasts awhile and is only broken by nonsense small talk Merlin enjoys taking part in. It must be finally having someone to talk to after spending long shifts alone for a month that makes him believe so, but this is being an uncommonly nice afternoon.

Unfortunately, the spell is broken when Merlin remembers that he has to run an errand for Gaius. “Shit, I've got to drive to Hereford before the shops close,” he says, interrupting Arthur's curry combing of Llamrei's rump.

Arthur stops what he's doing, eliciting a whiff from the horse. “So you have to go for the day?”

“Yes, well,” Merlin says, pushing off the wall, fingers slipping in his back pocket. “My shift would be over by the time I made it back anyway.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, resuming his combing of the mare, “can I do anything for you?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, “close up for me?”

“I'll see to it, don't worry,” Arthur says, seemingly immersed in getting Llamrei's shedding hair off her back.

“You sure you know how to?” Merlin asks, because he's the one responsible for the horses here and will be till Arthur gets promoted to groom rather than generic help.

“Yeah.”

“If you have any doubt, call Gaius,” Merlin says, pointing a thumb in the general direction of the property. “He has an office in...”

“That won't be needed,” Arthur tells him, putting down the curry comb and picking up a soft bristle groomer. “I can do it.”

Mostly convinced Arthur can close up by himself if he can groom a horse so well, Merlin toddles towards the exit. Before leaving he recommends Arthur to, “Turn up at the same time tomorrow. There's a lot of work to do.”

Voice raised to reach him now that he's away from the stall area, Arthur says, “I'll be there.”

 

***** 

 

When on the next day Merlin goes back to work he counts himself glad that Arthur did indeed manage to close up properly yesterday. He's a little bit less happy to establish that Arthur isn't there.

Upon finding this out dual thoughts cross Merlin's mind. The first is that if Arthur continues like this he will be given the sack. The second is that Merlin will miss having someone to chat with.

Anyway, Merlin's thoughts and feelings are irrelevant. Arthur probably didn't like mucking out the stables and that's why he's not returning.

Deciding that he mustn't dilly-dally and waste more time on pointless thoughts, Merlin sets to work. He feeds the horses, then grooms them. He sweeps the entrance and moves the wheelbarrow with the wonky wheel out so that Owain can later pick it up and repair it.

Then he settles on doing some reparation work of his own.

He's fixing a broken piece of harness, when Arthur rushes in, panting and saying, “Sorry I'm late.”

Merlin looks half down at his handiwork, half at Arthur. “And starting on the wrong foot.”

Arthur shifts his weight from right to left foot. “I didn't mean to be late. It just happened.”

Merlin frowns at the leather, cutting the edges of the torn stirrup with a pair of shears. “I'm not going to tell the bosses, but you can't keep doing it, you know.”

Arthur ducks his head and Merlin feels bad about being curt to him. Arthur's certainly deserved the telling off, but he's acting sheepish and looks genuinely contrite, so Merlin doesn't feel inclined to rip him a new one. "Come and give me a hand with this,” he says, wanting to establish a peaceful work atmosphere.

Shoulders still down, Arthur joins him at his work station. “What are you doing?” he asks, with his head craned.

“Fixing this stirrup,” Merlin says, cutting a piece of leather large enough to replace the torn one.

“Wouldn't it be easier to just buy a new saddle?”

Merlin's lips twitch. “I suppose, yeah, sure. But I don't want to tell Gaius the stables need to hog more money. That's not how you keep your job.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, mouth rounding in surprise.

“Yeah, I know you think, hell, the owners have got so much bleeding money they could spend it on a new saddle,” says Merlin, punching holes around the harness leather patch. “But everything is a business and if they count this a losing one...”

Arthur clears his throat in a way that sounds thoughtful. “I didn't think of it that way, though...”

“Though?” Merlin encourages.

“Nothing.” Arthur steps closer. “Just didn't think that this is a business in the way of corporate businesses, but it actually is.” Arthur shrugs. “I suppose I was a little blind for not seeing it.” Arthur pauses, eyes on Merlin's work. “Can I help?”

“Ever done this before?” Merlin asks, putting down the big needle he just used to puncture the leather.

“No,” Arthur says, coasting Merlin's work bench and putting down the rucksack he came in shouldering. “And I'm shit at darning but I'd like you to teach me.”

Merlin smiles. “I'd love to.” He slows his movements so Arthur can see what he's doing. “I'll make a great groom out of you yet.”

Fixing the stirrup takes them hours, both because it's a precision job, if the stirrup gave there could be serious accidents, and because Merlin is deliberately slow with his movements so Arthur can take note of them.

That gets them to lunchtime. Eating away from the horses is always advisable, so when their lunch break is upon them, they climb to the hayloft, and sit close to each other, their legs dangling over the ladder.

Unlike the day before, Arthur's come with a packed-lunch he unveils with a bit of flare. “I specifically had a few more made than I can possibly eat--” Arthur turns his head away to clear his throat. “At the deli, so I could share with you.”

Merlin turns his head to study Arthur's features. “You didn't have to.”

“Fair's fair,” Arthur tells him, showing him his goodies. “You shared yesterday and didn't have to either.”

Merlin accepts that at face value and chooses a sandwich out of the few Arthur has brought. Munching, he says, “This is very good.” Between a bite and the next, he stares at his extraordinarily tasty food, asking himself where Arthur might have got it. Merlin's Tesco expeditions are hardly ever rewarded with such flavour. He can safely say he's never had a sandwich taste as good as this one does. “What's in it?”

“It's just cheese, Merlin,” Arthur says, not latching onto his own lunch till he's seen Merlin go back to his.

Busy sharing Arthur's edibles, they don't talk for a while, at least not until Merlin is into his second sandwich. “So,” he asks, to fill the silence and because he's a little bit curious. “What decided you to become a groom?”

Arthur finishes busily chewing his morsel. “I could ask the same of you.”

“The answer's simple,” Merlin says, taking a sip from his water bottle. “I was born on a farm. We only had a nag but I was good with it. So I used my skills for job-hunting. The rest is history.”

“Mmm,” Arthur says, masticating like a proper boy on his best behaviour before asking his next question. “And is this farm you grew up on around here?”

Merlin levels an eyebrow at Arthur. “Well, it isn't terribly far as the crow flies but it's actually in Wales.”

“So you moved over here to work?”

“No,” Merlin says, wincing over his memories of ending up in this neighbourhood. “I had other jobs before this one. Believe me, this is the best I had.”

“How could your other jobs be worse than shovelling manure?” Arthur asks with a nose wrinkle.

“They were, I swear. ” Merlin says vehemently. “They were really gruelling. By the time I was done with my daily grind I was too tired to do anything. It wasn't looking too good. I wasn't either apparently because when my mum saw me she told me to quit, never mind being poor. And when a stickler for duty like her tells you to do that you just know your job is shit.”

“I'm sorry,” says Arthur, head down, empty napkin balled up in his fist. “I shouldn't have asked.”

Merlin smiles and shoulder bumps Arthur. “Hey, we were making small talk. As work mates we should be able to do that, shouldn't we?”

Arthur chins up, eyes rounder. “Yeah, I think... I think that's how it should be.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, grinning. Then remembering that they've probably been rather too long at their lunch break, he gathers himself upright and offers Arthur a hand up. “We should probably get back to work.”

They work in unison, Arthur doing what he's told and picking up the tricks of the trade incredibly quickly, Merlin gently instructing.

By the time their shift's over they've done all there was on Merlin's to do list and Merlin counts himself proud, if a little tired. He and Arthur aren't too shabby together. You might even say they make a good team. “I think we did a good job,” he asmits half-proud, half-surprised to find that they actually managed despite Arthur turning up late.

“Yeah, me too,” Arthur tells him, stretching his back, arms up, and pushing off his toes. “I feel good-tired.”

“Same.” Merlin beams rather stupidly. He has no particular reason to and he doesn't think a job well done requires so much stretching of his facial muscles. He perseveres however.

Arthur doesn't seem to mind either, partly because he's wearing a similar expression to Merlin's and partly because he does look dog tired.

That's when it occurs to Merlin that he might act so as to do Arthur a good turn. “Look, I don't know how you got here, but I can give you a lift home.”

Arthur's answering smile dies on his lips. “I, no, thank you,” he says, briskly, sharp, so much so he's nearly dismissive. “I can make it home on my own.”

Merlin feels the words like a slap to the face and his will to smile evaporates. “Sure, yeah. Obviously you're all set. Forget my offer.”

A more severe expression on, Merlin stomps off. He has to close the stables after all and there's no time like the present.

Merlin's starting on the process, lifting a dead bolt, when Arthur catches up with him and grabs him by the arm. “Merlin, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound rude. I just meant,” he says, trying to catch Merlin's eyes, “that I don't want to put you out of your way. But I appreciate the offer even though I have to decline it.”

Merlin nods, still unable to scrub the pout off his face. However, he realises he was too quick to take offence at Arthur's earlier rebuff. “I understand.”

Arthur squeezes his arm. “In fact, I'd be grateful if you could drop me at the bus station.”

Merlin frowns. “The bus station?”

“Yeah,” says Arthur with a tentative smile inching across his face. “If that's okay with you?”

“I can sure,” Merlin says, confused by Arthur abruptly changing his mind.

Arthur's smile reaches his eyes and makes them very bright, even in the dying light of the day. “Thank you, Merlin.”

Arthur's mood infecting him, Merlin lets himself grin. So Merlin quickly closes up. When he's done he walks Arthur to his shoddy 4x4. “Just throw my laundry bags in the back,” Merlin says, embarrassed by the state of his car. Arthur leans over the front passenger seat and drops Merlin's things in the back one. He doesn't seem put out by the way Merlin keeps his car. That's a feat in politeness considering that even Merlin's friend, Will, calls Merlin's car a trundling cesspit.

“I guess it's got a solid engine,” Arthur even says, clearly desperately looking for a feature to praise.

Merlin laughs, then says, “Don't bend over backwards. I realise this car is only fit for the scrap heap.”

“It isn't so bad,” Arthur says in so weak and tentative a tone, Merlin can't help guffawing.

“It's all right,” he says, patting the wheel. “It's done its duty.”

“So you'll buy another one?” Arthur asks over the coughing of the engine.

“I suppose I'll have to,” Merlin says, eyes partway on the road, partway on Arthur. “Don't get me wrong. I love this old piece of crap. It's served me well for quite a while. But I wouldn't mind getting something more environmentally friendly.”

“So you're an environmentalist?” Arthur asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Well, I've been known to march for causes I think right and I do donate... though,” Merlin says, trying to force the riotous gear lever into third, “as you can see I can't be as eco-friendly as I'd want... Beggars can't be choosers, la di da, you know the drill probably.”

Arthur doesn't comment on that but he does ask Merlin what he'd do if he had the money to live the way he wanted. Merlin answers freely and from then on keeps chatting all the way to the bust stop he's to drop Arthur at. “I hope I didn't give you a headache,” he says at last, watching while Arthur untangles himself from the seatbelt.

“No,” Arthur says, opening the car door as he prepares to hop off. “Actually, it was nice talking to you. You certainly made the drive interesting”

“So, I'll see you tomorrow?” Merlin says, asking an inane question he already knows the answer to. What an idiot he is.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, lingering in his seat even though he ought to get out of the car. “Yeah, tomorrow.”

The driver in the vehicle idling behind Merlin's sounds their horn and that shakes Arthur into moving. He bounds out of the car and has its door slammed shut without saying what he seemed to be wanting to say.

Before Merlin can do more than blink, Arthur's gone and under the bus shelter. Not wanting to cause a gridlock, Merlin just lifts his hand, waves Arthur goodbye and drives off.

Arthur waves too, becoming smaller and smaller as Merlin's car weaves on through the traffic.

By the time Merlin's doubled back – he'll never confess it but he's gone out of his way to drop Arthur off – Arthur's no longer standing in the shelter.

He must have been lucky and caught a bus home after the first few minutes spent waiting.

When he realises that he's been deprived of another brief glimpse of his new work mate, Merlin feels a little bit let down. He half chides himself for it. He's being definitely stupid reacting this way for no sensible reason. Why should Arthur have been there at all? Why expect it? Another part of him is too busy looking forward to tomorrow's shift to do more self-reprimanding.

Merlin makes it home with a smile on his face.

 

****

 

Merlin cuts the nail heads with the clench cutter. He's handing Arthur a pair of pull-offs when Badgemagus, thinking the procedure suspect, kicks him.

Just as Merlin topples over backwards, Arthur shouts, "Merlin!"

Merlin is too winded to respond respond properly, so Arthur rushes over to him, landing in the mud just like Merlin has. With quick hands he checks Merlin over for injuries, touching him everywhere. Merlin could tell him that he's fine, that nothing was wounded here but his pride, but the truth is that Arthur's touch takes his breath and stops it in his lungs. He doesn't want Arthur to stop what he's doing, oh no.

At last Merlin finds a way to focus on Arthur's concerned expression rather than the warmth that radiates from his sure hands. That's when he says, “I'm fine, Arthur, I swear."

"Horse kicks can kill, you know," he says, probing Merlin's abdomen and ribcage one last time before offering Merlin a hand up.

Merlin smiles softly, then wickedly. He grabs Arthur's hand, tugging until Arthur lands on top of him, their chests pressed one against the other. For every breath Arthur takes Merlin takes its counterpart, the weight of Arthur nothing compared to the one burdening his heart when Arthur's this close.

In the pause between reactions Merlin studies Arthur, the widening of his pupils, the quickening of his breath. He feels how this moment is rife with possibilities, imaginings of them gate crashing his subconscious and spurring him to do something.

With these thoughts in his mind, his heartbeat hammers in his chest, in his ears, but he doesn’t force the moment. He only says, "Let's go up to the house and have a shower. We're covered in filth.”

"No," Arthur says, his breath whooshing out with the delivery, his body tensing on top of Merlin's as it would at the moment of sexual release. "No, we could use the pump in the back. “We don't want the house."

"Arthur, it's cold and the staff toilets up at the manor have central central heating."

"But I'm sure you don't want to spread muck up at the house only for the housekeeper to give you the telling off of the century. Let us keep all stables mishaps in the stables."

Once they're in the back of the stable buildings, where the pump is located, Merlin pulls his shirt over his head and drops his trousers. Better to be quickly done with this since the air temperature won't make the experience pleasant.

His outlook changes though when he feels eyes on him.

Arthur is watching him peel off his clothes with keen eyes that make a blush rise to the surface of Merlin's skin. That is interesting, to say the least. When Merlin is in nothing but his underwear, shivers running up and and down his body both because of the cold and because of the intensity of Arthur's eyes, Arthur aims the pump at him, washing the mud off him.

He feels a little bit less on the spot when Arthur's turn to strip comes. With such a view at his disposal, Merlin's eyes skate over Arthur's body, taking in the broad muscle groups and the long planes of him.

As Merlin pumps the grime off Arthur, they joke and laugh.

Arthur yelps when Merlin aims the jet at his lower body. Even through his underwear Merlin can spy Arthur's cock shrinking. “It's fucking cold,” Merlin says, with an impish grin caused by the memory of having had to suffer this himself, “Isn't it?”

“No, the water's a perfectly reasonable temperature,” Arthur says, insisting that he's fine and that washing in the open is a good idea even when his body gets covered in goose pimples.

Merlin smirks but the taunt is weak, Merlin has to put too much effort in the teasing. What he wants to do is let is eyes go as soft as his body. Warmth is gushing from the inside out of him, making his joints feel watery, rubbery. He can't indulge his whim though. Or at least he doesn't feel as though he should. So once he's done with the pump he ducks his head and hands Arthur a towel. Heat prickling at his cheeks, he makes himself look away until Arthur asks, “Do I look presentable?”

And then Merlin has to look. “You still need fresh clothes, much as I do.”

“I don't have a change,” says Arthur, twisting the towel in his hands.

Merlin smiles, glad his foresight is going to help. “I have some in the boot.”

When Arthur takes in the quality fresh shirt and nice jeans he says, “Were you planning to go out tonight?”

“Yeah,” Merlin admits, giving Arthur the tee he planned to wear under his long sleeved one. “I was.”

Arthur puts the shirt on; it's a snug fit that highlights Arthur's chest, or rather his fine pectorals. “Oh, it's good that you should. Have fun, I mean.”

Merlin takes the other top he brought along out of the bag he stashed in the boot. He turns it in his hands, making sure he's got front and back positioned right. “You can come too,” he blurts out before he's properly thought this out.

He fears Arthur will laugh his offer off, and feels his stomach twist in knots for dread of a rejection, but Arthur doesn't rebuff him.

He says, “Yeah, yeah why not.” Then he sits on the edge of the boot compartment, one leg up, his hand around his calf, and watches Merlin intently as he yanks down his shirt.

Before Merlin can complete this action, Arthur palms his bare side, hand dry and radiating heat. “I can already see the bruise. That was one nasty kick.”

Merlin feels his body temperature rise. He knows that that can't be, that it's statistically unlikely Arthur's touch would give him instant fever, but his face is burning and so is the strip of flesh Arthur is running his fingers over, the point of contact between them. Fearing Arthur will notice the waywardness of his body, feel it grow preposterously hot to the touch, Merlin yanks his shirt down. “That was a pretty regular kick as horses go.”

“Perhaps we should drop by at the local GP's,” Arthur says, concern lacing his tone.

Now that Arthur's accepted his impromptu invitation out, Merlin's not so keen to postpone it for a trip to his GP's office or, worse waiting-wise, the A&E. “Nah,” he says, brushing the accident off as inconsequential. “It's nothing a pint won't cure.”

“Then that pint will be on me,” Arthur offers, smiling this time, the crease of concern on his forehead giving way to a decidedly softer, more relaxed expression. The new one is so gently fond, Merlin pinks up.

Arthur is quite true to his word. When, at the pub, he locates the counter, he makes a beeline for it and buys Merlin his pint.

“Your painkiller,” he says, his lips quirk teasingly, sinking into a chair and edging it closer to Merlin's.

Merlin raises his glass in a toast gesture. “From this day forward I'll dub you my knight in shining armour.”

Merlin's words seem to have brought some colour to Arthur's face. “I just...”

Whatever Arthur might have wanted to say, Merlin will never know, for in that moment Will, who seems to have turned up out of nowhere like a porn pop up banner on a download website, interrupts them. “Oi, Merlin, long time no see,” he says, clapping him on the back. “Your job at the poshos gobbled up all your free time?”

Merlin denies that with all the vehemence he can muster this late in the evening. "Nah, it's just that I don't have as much time on my hands as I used to."

Will takes that as a confirmation of exploitation though. "I still think you should start another revolution, get things running proper like."

"Will," Merlin starts but Will ploughs right over him.

"Jobs like yours are no use to anyone, you know that, mate. I mean horses, who needs horses these days? They're an outmoded relic of the past only the rich can afford. I told you time and again I can find you a new, sensible job, contributing to the community and the like. I have my boss' ear."

Before Merlin can tell Will to fuck off, Arthur sees fit to intervene. "Merlin's great with horses, and I'm sure he can look after himself, without officious interference. "

“And who would you be?" Will asks with a rather ferocious growl.

Arthur doesn't react as though he's intimidated but rather jumps into the fray. "Someone who's enough of a friend to Merlin to realise that he's smart enough to look after himself."

"Oh, so you're an interfering tosser who thinks he knows my best mate better than me then,” Will deadpans, confrontational.

Arthur's eyes spark with the light of rage. 

Somehow Merlin knows the next words out of his mouth will start a brawl so he wades in the conversation to defuse it. "Come on," he says, one hand on each man's shoulder. "No reason for hostility. Arthur is not a privileged tit, he understands the problems we're working with.” He turns his body to Arthur the way he previously angled himself at Will when mentioning Arthur. “And Will's not such an aggressive wanker usually."

Both men grunt, agreeing to a grudging ceasefire, while only partially acknowledging Merlin's point, that being animosity helps no one. It's also true that Will and Arthur are better men than they’re looking at the moment. For whatever reason neither Will nor Arthur seems to be behaving in a way that's typical of them. Arthur, based on Merlin's brief but direct experience, isn't aggressive. And Will only is at political rallies or after he's heard bad news on the telly. What has wrought this change on them Merlin doesn't know.

Since Merlin can still feel the tension between his two friends, he thinks of ways to salvage the evening. When he has a plan, he vaults off his chair and makes for the bar. He does this without sharing his game plan with the other two. “What are you doing?" Will calls after him loud, surprise colouring his tone.

"Buying you two a drink," Merlin says, shilling fivers out of his pocket. "As a peace offering."

He doesn't tell them that his is more of a peace inducer than a peace offering.

The alcohol doesn't help much though. Even though they've got enough spirits to mellow out an angry crowd, Arthur and Will don't touch it. Rather they still send each other baleful looks they season with pointed verbal jabs.

"So you're another one of those," Will says, eyes narrowed Arthur's way.

Arthur makes the mistake of addressing that. "Those what?"

"Bootlickers pandering to the aristocracy."

Merlin can see Arthur's jaw lock. Envisaging the turn this evening is about to take, Merlin turns to the alcohol designed for his friends. It's his consolation reward, as he sees it.

As his head grows lighter, the bitterness at having missed an opportunity to spend some meaningful time with Arthur lifts. He feels more accepting of the rather crappy circumstances, as though nothing can faze him, and better equipped to weather this little storm. He definitely has a rosier outlook. "Peace and good will, peace and good will," he says, his head buzzing with words that get a bit slurred as he voices them.

For such benign words, the effect they have on his friends is not what Merlin had been hoping to achieve. Arthur and Will argue back and forth about who is responsible for the state Merlin is in, with de riguer snapping. The conversation goes a bit like this: “This is entirely your fault,” Arthur says.

“I'd say it's yours,” Will says, countering Arthur's position. “Merlin's never turned to the bottle when he was with me before.”

“No, I still say it's yours for making him so uncomfortable he had to drink to shut your insurrectionist bullshit out.”

If that's not childish enough, they resort to quarrelling over who will take Merlin home.

When Arthur and Will were arguing about whose fault Merlin's behaviour was, Merlin kept out of it. The conversation was stupid and Merlin mellow and distanced enough not to wish to take part in it. But now that they're quarreling over the right to escort Merlin about, Merlin sees fit to intervene.

His head might be spinning a bit, and he feels as though his body is floating, lighter than it has any right to be, but he's not so out of it that he doesn't understand what is happening or unable to safeguard his own hide. “Oi, I'm mildly tipsy that's all, I don't need a bodyguard or a chauffeur.”

“You're not driving,” Will says, pointing a finger at his nose.

“Merlin, I'm with you on most everything and generally likely to be against any opinion Will here may hold, but what you're planning is not advisable,” Arthur pitches in, agreeing with Will for once.

Merlin realises that there's no moving his friends, just as he understands that his evening with Arthur is ruined beyond hope of salvaging. So he mediates. “I'll take a cab.”

Will seems to be considering this as a good idea, but Arthur argues against it. “I'll drop you home,” he offers gently. “It'll save you the fare and you'll find your car at yours tomorrow instead of having to get back here to pick it up.”

That proposition seems to be unacceptable to Will, for he's again expanding against the wisdom of doing what Arthur suggests. “He drank too.”

“Just a glass of cider.” Arthur points to his drink. “Less than you and way less than Merlin.”

Merlin himself has a bit of an objection. “I drove you here. If you drop me off you won't have a car to to go home with.”

“I'll walk.”

Will snorts, facing away.

Now that his thoughts are being steered that way, Merlin is back to longing for some time alone with Arthur. A ride home would afford him that. Still, he needs to make sure he's not putting Arthur out of his way to get that. “Would that be a long walk?”

“None that I can't make,” Arthur says, standing as though his answer decides it. “And if I get tired, I can hop on a bus.”

The night bus service isn't as regular as the morning one, but Arthur's offer sounds reasonable and alluring. Merlin can afford the cab fare but it would put a dent in his budget. Plus, if he accepts Arthur's offer he gets Arthur to himself, without Will butting his nose in.

“Okay,” Merlin says, picking himself up and wobbling right into Arthur's side. “That's not too bad an idea.”

Will groans but Arthur, undaunted, circles a hand around Merlin's waist to steady him, saying, “Whoa.”

Merlin's body goes tingly at the point of contact, so he burrows closer to Arthur. “'m steady,” he mumbles into Arthur's neck. Somehow his nose is buried deep in Arthur's neck; the scent of him clings to his nostrils, sweet and natural. “Let's go.”

With Arthur's support he makes it out of the pub and into the car. It's the same when it comes to negotiate his building. Arthur helps him into the lift, leaning him against the wall. “Are you feeling less drunk?” he asks Merlin as he pushes the 'up' button.

“Yeah,” says Merlin a bit more aware than he was in the pub; fresh air does wonders. “I feel better.”

Merlin is so close to attaining his sober status that he opens the door without fumbling. On the threshold he turns around and smiles brightly. “See, not drunk off my head. I'm actually pretty proud of my accomplishment.”

Arthur studies him fondly. “Make sure you take an aspirin before going to bed.”

Heart bursting at being the recipient of Arthur's sweet concern, Merlin doesn't allow himself to over-think it. His synapses fire but do not actually produce thought. So before he can weigh the pros and cons, he leans forwards and catches Arthur's lips with his. A few seconds inaction pass, then the tip of his tongue traces the inner edge of Arthur's soft mouth.

With a gasp, Arthur grabs his elbow and pulls him close. Despite Merlin's fears that he wouldn't, that he misread their interactions so far, he reciprocates.

At first he presses his lips tightly against Merlin's, then he sucks Merlin's lower lip into his mouth.

At this, a thrill courses through Merlin's veins, a kind of joy that translates itself into physical stimuli. It travels through him and lights up something inside him that makes him giddily happy. Spine melting with the kiss, Merlin searches the tip of Arthur's tongue with his, so their tongues can slip together, wet and hot. It's so perfect Merlin closes his eyes. His body goes weak, his legs hollow. Need burns bright through him and spurs him on. Pulling Arthur closer, he sucks Arthur's tongue into his mouth, causing Arthur to whimper.

Knowing that he caused that to happen, Merlin's muscles quiver and his breath itches. Kissing Arthur is making Merlin feel good, but having Arthur love it is even more satisfactory; it chases Merlin's blood away from his head and into his cock. He kisses Arthur all the harder. He never wants this to end.

They share a sigh, then get more into it. Merlin sidles up to Arthur, playing with the hair at his nape. Arthur's hands shake as they sneak under his shirt, caressing, palming, roving, even as their kiss deepens. Merlin's about to crush him to him when Arthur pushes him back, panting.

At the rejection Merlin's heart plummets to his boots. “I-- he stammers, then begins apologizing. “I never wanted to make you uncomfortable.”

Arthur starts forward, a finger to his lips. “You're drunk,” he says.

Can it be that Arthur isn't rejecting him? Merlin's hopes lift. “Tipsy,” Merlin specifies, both because he thinks that's true and because if he convinces Arthur that's the case then they can continue with what they were doing.

“Merlin, back at the pub you couldn't walk in a straight line.”

“The night air's sobered me up,” Merlin says, hoping to coax Arthur into changing his mind.

“No, Merlin, this isn't right.”

Merlin's shoulders droop. “Um, well, then, I suppose it was nice for as long as it lasted.”

Arthur squeezes his neck. “I want it to happen. Just not now. I need you to be sure, without the shadow of a doubt.”

“I am,” Merlin says, trying for one last time to get Arthur into his bed tonight.

Arthur huffs, rubs his chest where his heart is. He looks away with a smile on his face, then to Merlin again. “There's nothing I wanted to hear more, I swear, but I'd still rather wait till you're more put together and ready to listen to what I have to say.”

“So,” Merlin prompts, “this is what exactly, a rain check?” Merlin rolls his eyes at his own wording.

Pushing off his feet with a lot of momentum, Arthur dives forwards and gives Merlin a quick kiss. “Something like it. We're postponing this until tomorrow.” Arthur looks at his shoes, colour spreading on his cheeks. “I'll be counting the hours.”

He makes to back off, but Merlin makes a grab for him. “Don't go.”

Arthur sighs, rubs his scalp.

Merlin holds a hand up. “Not for that,” he says, though he burns with a desire to take Arthur's stupid face in his hands, kiss him silly, and lay him down on his bed, (where he would map Arthur's lovely body with his mouth). He understands, though, that Arthur's being gentlemanly and a friend first, looking out for him, so he doesn't want to force his hand. “Just sleep here, with me--”

Arthur gulps loudly. “I can't sleep in the same bad as you without--”

This time Arthur isn't only blushing, his face is flaming. Touched, Merlin kisses his nose and says, “On the sofa.”

“I don't know if I should.” Eagerness lights up Arthur's eyes however, but he's quick to suppress it.

Merlin can see the dark circles under Arthur's eyes and the way his body is slumping with tiredness, and knows he's doing the right thing pressing. “You could be asleep in five minutes if you didn't have to walk home.”

“Um.” Arthur sidles from side to side. Then he curls his fist and says, “Yeah, yeah, all right.”

Before Merlin nips into the other room to retrieve some blankets for him, Arthur whips out his mobile and starts texting. Merlin gathers he's warning whoever he lives with – flatmate, parents, siblings – that he's not going home tonight. Merlin decides to take his time choosing which set of linens is going to Arthur so that Arthur can have his privacy communicating with whomever. When Merlin makes it back to his lunge, Arthur's done though and sitting on the sofa he's to sleep on. His stuff is on the coffee table in a neat array and his shoes are lying under it.

“Here,” Merlin says, handing him the blanket pile. “I could find you some PJs as well.”

Arthur accepts the pile from Merlin, stands, and starts working towards turning the sofa into a bed for the night. “Thank you, but I usually sleep in the-- in my boxers.”

Merlin's has to count to ten so as not to do anything foolish, like tip Arthur back so he lands on the sofa and take his mouth. Firmly trying not to envision Arthur's near nakedness, he busies himself with the bedding, helping Arthur, flattening sheets, fluffing pillows and spreading blankets on top of the sheets. “There,” he says. “Done.”

Now that Arthur has some accommodation for the night, Merlin ought to decamp. He doesn't and watches instead as Arthur ever so slowly strips, his eyes on Merlin's.

By time Arthur has stepped out of his jeans, Merlin's mouth has gone completely dry. “I-- um-- I should--”

Merlin's managed to walk past Arthur when Arthur grabs him by the wrist, turns and puts a kiss to his shoulder. “I haven't forgotten,” he breathes against Merlin's skin, before biting down, trapping it between his teeth.

The sharp nip lights a fire at the base of Merlin's spine and sets Merlin's imaginative powers going. By the time he surfaces from his sex day dream, his cock half hard in his briefs, Arthur's burrowed under the covers.

To respect Arthur's wishes for tonight, Merlin hightails it from there and makes it to his bedroom, calling out a hurried, garbled good night before he secures the door, the only thing keeping him from going back there and attempting to seduce Arthur, shut.

Even though the door's closed, Merlin can hear Arthur's “Night, Merlin, sleep tight,” clear as day.

And if he only does fall asleep after he's jerked off, hand tugging his cock viciously as he bites on his lower lip, well, that's not something Arthur needs to know.

 

**** 

 

When Merlin wakes up the next morning he's blinking up at the ceiling with a smile on his face and no clue as to what put it there until, the fog of sleep dissipating, he quite suddenly remembers.

Arthur is in the other room and has slept at his with the promise of more to come between them.

That's enough reason, Merlin judges, to put a smile on anyone's face.

With no desire to wake Arthur before it's time, Merlin makes it to the lunge cum kitchenette by padding about barefoot.

Instead of using his coffee machine, a noisy bugger if there's one, he just puts some hot water on the boil and makes himself tea. In the same way he doesn't toast the bread, his toaster being as old and noisome as his coffee machine, but contents himself with spreading butter on a cold slice.

He's dishing the various components of his breakfast when someone puts their hands before his eyes.

“Arthur,” Merlin says with a gasp, not so much because he doesn't know who's there, only Arthur is, but because Arthur's touch constricts his lungs in a funny way.

“Did I scare you?” Arthur says, leaning close, his chin on Merlin's shoulder.

“Nah,” Merlin says, breathing in, letting his chest expand with the happy feeling that washes over him at Arthur's proximity. “You just make me... very responsive.”

“Do, I?” Arthur says, putting a kiss to his neck. “So you haven't changed your mind?”

Merlin turns in Arthur's arms. “Did you think I would?”

“I couldn't be sure,” Arthur says, searching his eyes. “You did get a bit soused yesterday.”

Having been patient so far by conceding a reprieve, Merlin doesn't let Arthur doubt him longer.

He closes the distance between them, enough so that he can sense Arthur's breath soft and warm as it fans against his lips, and tastes its sweetness for a bare moment, before slanting his lips across Arthur's, whisper soft, feather light.

The first touch is gentle, but heats Merlin's blood right up. “I want to have sex with you, no doubt about it,” he says pulling back so Arthur can read the earnestness on his face.

“Yeah?” Arthur says, his turn to take Merlin's lips. He uses his tongue to tease, dipping it in Merlin's mouth only to let their kiss shallow out and rub their mouths together.

He nibbles Merlin's lips until they part and the kiss deepens again, getting slippery and hot, intimate.

When Arthur draws back it's to trace his fingertips over Merlin's face, across the sharp angles of Merlin's cheekbones, the line of his eyebrow. Thanks to Arthur's touch Merlin feels cherished, his heart racing, as if it can exhaust itself and just stop.

“There's something I need to tell you,” Arthur starts, the pads of his fingers still lighting on various parts of Merlin's face. “I--”

“No,” Merlin says, not ready for more words, more delays. Yesterday Arthur wanted him to wait because Merlin wasn't sober enough. Merlin accepted that. But now he has no more patience for waiting. Unless... “I mean, if you don't want to that's fine.”

“I want to,” Arthur is quick to reply. “But we need to talk. I don't want anything to come between us.”

Merlin takes Arthur's face in his hands. “Nothing can come between us,” he says, knowing full well how big a statement that is, what it means. “If you have doubts about me that's fine, but if you don't, if you feel like me, please, let's not wait.”

Arthur's eyes go rounder and lighter; they soften with Merlin's words. “Okay, all right,” he says, kissing Merlin's lips lightly once more. His mouth meanders some more, so he's putting a kiss on his jaw, his neck, the top of Merlin's shoulders, where bare flesh peeks out from his tee.

With a shudder Merlin steps away from Arthur to direct him to his bedroom, but Arthur stops him by making a grab for his wrist.

In a pause between heartbeats, he watches Merlin attentively, looking for clues. As he lingers, he meets Merlin's encouraging smile, and he blushes, looking satisfied with Merlin's level of commitment to this. The reaction widens Merlin's own smile.

They're doing this. They're getting there and it's a mutual decision from which only good things can spring, Merlin feels.

Once again Merlin holds his hand out for Arthur to take, to seal the deal, to lead him onwards. Caught in Arthur's gaze though, Merlin finds he can't do anything but hold on to his breath as if it's the most precious thing to him, as if he doubts he can get another after this one, because Arthur will be forever taking it from him. It's then that Arthur clasps his hand tight, a squeeze that breaks the impasse. It's all encouragement and warmth.

With Arthur's hand in his and renewed purpose, Merlin moves across the kitchenette, leading Arthur into his bedroom.

When they stop on the threshold, Merlin catches Arthur grinning. "What are you smiling at?"

"I smile when I'm happy."

Merlin feels his heart thump in his chest, joy pulling at its strings. He pulls Arthur against him and dances him backwards into his room.

It's a bit awkward at first because they need to negotiate their limbs and surroundings that are new to Arthur. But even if Arthur's a bit at sea when it comes to manoeuvring around Merlin's tiny cluttered bedroom, he stays gentle with Merlin, not gauche at all. “You can have me whichever way you want me, you know,” Merlin says to encourage him.

Arthur's hands pull Merlin into his orbit, into the warmth of him. When they're pressed together, Merlin senses plump lips on his neck, trailing along his skin, a light brush that causes his skin to break into goose pimples every time Arthur breathes against him.

As they near the bed, Arthur's hands quicken all over him, slipping under his shirt, tracing the indentation of Merlin's spine, each notch of it carefully mapped.

"How does that feel?" Arthur disingenuously asks.

Merlin can only say, “Nice,” so as not to blurt out what he really thinks, that nothing has ever felt so good and that Merlin is coming undone, his self control done to shreds simply because Arthur is touching him.

To shed his shirt Merlin pulls away. He whips it over his head and quickly drops it. They're skin on skin then, Arthur looking into his face with softly sparkling eyes. With broad palms opened flat, Arthur caresses Merlin's newly bared skin in a soft up and down motion that thrills Merlin, sets him on fire and makes him harden between a breath and the next.

Seeing this must have been a catalyst for Arthur because he hardens too, grinding his hips against Merlin with a muted sob.

At that their chests rise and empty of air. They study each other's reactions. Merlin recognises that the air is sizzling with something. He doesn't want to call it electricity because it feels cliché, but it's not a sensation Merlin can ignore and it's definitely there, pushing him towards Arthur like a magnet, taking his breath to the point that when he tries to let his ribcage expand in a search for oxygen, he finds he can't properly breathe. He can't suck in air; it's as though the world has been deprived of all of it.

Then they touch, Arthur warm and solid under him. Merlin's hands skim down his arms and skate down his sides to his hips. Arthur's own hands move to the frayed waistband of Merlin's PJs, his thumb repeating concentric patterns on the skin right above it. It takes nothing for Merlin to stretch the elastic that secures the bottoms to his hips and to drop them.

Without any fuss Merlin steps out of them. Arthur's breath rattles in his chest at Merlin's near nudity. And then Merlin walks into Arthur's arms, their chests touching.

The sensation sparks something inside him, like a flame on dry tinder. It catches and then devours him. To obey his need, he grips harder at Arthur, nuzzling into the curve where his shoulder arches into his neck, inhaling deep, getting a whiff of a musky scent that's all Arthur. Dizzy with it he licks a kiss into Arthur's mouth.

Arthur sobs. He grasps his face with one palm; his other roams down to his arse and grips it, kneads it, reeling Merlin in so that their their pricks graze.

“Uh,” Merlin says, and it may make no sense but that's all he has the brain power to let out, the more so since Arthur closes in again.

He scatters soft, wet kisses all over Merlin's neck, from one ear to the other, a cordon of kisses that melts Merlin's bones till they feel hollow and brittle. Finished with that, he moves his mouth across his collarbone to his shoulder.

This is too good. Merlin can't not react. So he takes his hands elsewhere too. He gets his fill touching Arthur until his hands come to rest at his nape.

This close they can stare into each other's eyes. Merlin can read complicity in Arthur's as well as excitation. It's mixed together with a measure of tender amusement that does wonders to ease Merlin's tension, his fear of fucking up. He guesses he looks as ready as Arthur does too, for they move at the same time, silently agreeing on what they should do, what happens next.

Gripping Arthur's neck Merlin leans in for a kiss.

As his lips brush over Arthur's, pure emotion bursts through Merlin until they both set aside all hesitation and the kiss hardens, becomes deep, and wet. Merlin's mouth opens and their tongues meet and slide one on top of the other, dancing toghether. Arousal floods every nerve and every cell in Merlin's body, making his fingers grapple and bunch up the one remaining article of clothing Arthur's wearing, namely his boxers.

When those are gone too, Arthur's hands scrabbling away at the lone piece of underwear, Arthur straightens and looks at him with raw, unabashed hunger. His cock stands red and pointing at Merlin, pre-come beading at the tip.

A rumbling noise that comes deep from his chest erupts from Merlin. It ricochets, earnest and desperate, off the four walls of Merlin's room. Arthur responds in kind.

There's no postponing their coming together now. The hunger Merlin senses coming off Arthur and that he's himself exuding won't allow it.

They get to the bed, Arthur's hand pulling down Merlin's boxers, his knees cradling his hips.

"God," Merlin gasps when his cock bobs free.

If that feels good, nothing can beat the sensation that envelopes Merlin a moment later. Arthur takes him into his mouth, sucking at the tip first, then lapping a drop of semen with his tongue and gathering it up his flesh, spreading it upwards.

This produces such a heady rush in Merlin's body, he moans, loud and long, unashamed. Shock waves go through his body at each pass of Arthur's mouth.

With a perfect downward slide, Arthur smooths his lips down his length, backs off, draws the tip of his tongue along the slit, then takes him deep again. The motion, the wetness, the sucking, they're smashing Merlin to bits.

Unable to help himself, Merlin props himself on his elbow, reaches out and rubs his thumb at Arthur's lips, where they stretch around him.

The sight does things to Merlin. His own cock is glistening with the spit that Arthur put there. Arthur's fiery eyes as his mouth slides over his prick draw Merlin in and make him fall deep in a spiral that's got Arthur written all across it, a world where there's nothing else. And the warmth... It's mind-blowing. Merlin's whole body throbs with pleasure. He's so close to coming, he starts whimpering nonsense.

When he realises how close Merlin truly is, Arthur lets off. He crawls on top of Merlin and they exchange slow, heated kisses that are all tongue and no art.

Arthur's touch, is sensual, insistent. It awakens Merlin's body to a heightened sense of pleasure. It devastates him so thoroughly that he's starting to think he could dissolve then and there.

Slick and panting, their mouths skimming skin and awaking gasps, they both climb so close to their peak that they must take a breather.

“Condom," Arthur says, slow, deliberate, voice raw and like sex.

Wheezing too, Merlin answers him, “In the night-stand, top drawer. It's there with the lube."

Arthur strains on top of him. With minimal rooting through Merlin's things he recovers the needed supplies. While Merlin is dying of anticipation, helplessly zeroing in on Arthur's large cock, and on his hands, Arthur spreads them on the bed.

Breath coming fast, Arthur takes himself in hand, and rolls the condom on. He does this with an economy of movement that speaks of the many times he's gone through these exact same motions.

Clearly Arthur's been around a few times, he's so smooth. Much more than Merlin probably. It should embarrass Merlin, but he only finds it hot, especially when he tries to picture Arthur in bed, his body poetry in motion, fucking a faceless person with relentless abandon so that it doesn't matter the other party isn't Merlin. Not in Merlin's fantasy, because he's all hung up on Arthur and Arthur alone.

His reverie crashes when big, blunt fingers open Merlin up, stretching him till Merlin is past fearing the burn of it and only aching for more of Arthur's perfect touch.

A breath taken, two, then Arthur's cock head begins to slip inside him. 

Merlin sucks in a third deep breath then pushes back. As their chests rise and fall, Merlin accepts the devastating feeling of fullness that comes with penetration. It makes him so conscious of his body he can only respond to sensory stimuli, his thoughts scattering.

He lets his body take over, enjoying having Arthur inside, feeling him swell even more, feeling the little jerks of his length.

They stay still until they've had time to adapt, Merlin to fight past the burn, Arthur probably fighting his own battle against coming, then Arthur starts moving, rocking his hips, pressing in until he's buried deep, taking Merlin in hand with cool, slippery fingers that are heaven to thrust into.

From then on Merlin is lost to the feel of Arthur's hands on his prick, of his lips at his throat, his cock grazing his prostrate.

It's everything.

Though Arthur deliberately angles himself, punching his hips in at a slant, he's not hitting Merlin's prostate as fully as he might. Merlin doesn't say as much, it's good enough as it is, Arthur pounding in, his body a bunch of coiled muscles weighing him down, his body snapping forward and back with single-minded abandon, but Arthur guesses at it all the same.

So he straightens on top of Merlin, beginning a more serrated back-and-forth rhythm. He is amazing, relentless in his attempt to milk Merlin, never tiring of trying.

For his part Merlin never wants him to stop. He wants to hold Arthur like this forever, his arms around him, his hands full of him, gripping and touching and stroking.

Arthur seems to have a good read of him for he doesn't stop thrusting. He kisses him and nuzzles into his neck, but he doesn't stop driving his hips forwards, nudging his cock in. It goes on and on until, of course, it can't.

Arthur speeds up, his motions going stuttered, jerkier, the sudden circling of his hips replacing the smoother, deeper strokes from before. What comes after is a rhythm of pure bliss. It's so good Merlin feels laid bare, laid open. Through the last undulations of their bodies, Merlin locks lips with Arthur, slipping him the tongue.

When he feels Arthur shake with his climax, Merlin follows him in automatic response, his orgasm ploughing through him with a force he doesn't remember from other encounters, leaving him to shake into a fleet of instinctive little tremors.

Feeling week with the energy drained from him, Merlin gulps in air. 

Arthur settles close to him, laying his arm across his chest in a gentle hold. As they lie this way Arthur murmurs nothings in his ear, pushing his hair off his forehead. "Can I stay?” he asks when he regains command of his vocabulary, hesitation in his voice.

Arthur's being in doubt of his welcome slices through Merlin's defences, undercutting all thoughts of circumspection he might have entertained, if he ever did past the moment he started to think of Arthur as more than a work mate who might or mightn't turn up. Without thinking about it, Merlin reciprocates the hold and closes his eyes to appreciate the moment and the tide of feelings washing over him.

When Arthur threatens to move away though, Merlin realises he's not answered his question. “Yeah,” he says, more breathless than he should be by now. “We have no work today, I think we can lounge in bed together.”

Arthur's smile is so bright it stuns Merlin. “And have a nap,” he says, nipping at his shoulder, sparking a reaction shiver.

"That or round two," Merlin says, carding his finger through Arthur's hair, thus yanking him closer. “What do you say?”

“I say it's an offer that can't be refused,” Arthur says, mangling film quotes while rubbing his chest.

It's a pity that he yawns next and that Merlin catches the bug from him and does too. “Maybe that nap can come first.”

“Even though we just woke up?”

“Yeah, Merlin says, snuggling up to Arthur. “It's our free day after all.”

As Merlin's control gives in favour of some more sleep he senses Arthur go lax beside him. It's nice. Merlin could potentially get used to having him in his bed.

 

****

 

“Are you sure you want to do it?” Arthur asks, following him as Merlin flits around the stables.

Merlin grabs the newest breaking saddle, spins around, and jaunts back to the stalls. “Of course, I'm sure. Culhwch is three years old. It's time for him to be broken for the saddle.”

“It could be dangerous,” Arthur says, watching Culhwch as if he's the enemy. “He's never borne a saddle and rider before. That I know of, that is.”

Merlin smiles. “Your concern is very sweet, Arthur, but I'm a groom, I know what I'm doing.”

“I know but--” Arthur says, crossing his arms. “It can still be dangerous.”

“Don't tell me you think I'm so incompetent I can't do my job,” Merlin says, putting the saddle on top of the blanket covering Culhwch's back. “Because I can and I'm good at it.”

Arthur starts towards him and Culhwch snorts, probably unnerved by Arthur's swift move.

Merlin gives Culhwch a carrot but grins at Arthur. “Should I give you one too?”

Arthur snorts but a smile gets away from him. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he says, as he does the girth up. “But Gaius phoned me the other morning and apparently Mr Pendragon is very keen on having this one ready to take the saddle so he can buy a new one for his son. He's supposed to be on the property now that he's finishing his thesis and the horse is a pre-graduation gift.”

Arthur intercepts Merlin's hands as he finishes his job with the saddle. “What if Pendragon changes his mind? What if he doesn't want the new horse?”

Merlin's lips form into a grimace. “I'm pretty sure that the little lordling is an acquisitive type. You know how those people are.”

Arthur drops his hand. “What if he isn't though?”

“Arthur,” Merlin says with a sigh, “you know how the rich are.”

Arthur's eyes flash in a way that reminds him Merlin of Will. “Yeah, like normal people, that's what they're like, Merlin.”

Culhwch must have sensed something in the air, probably psyched out by Arthur's brisk tone, for when Merlin tries to attach the long rein, he head butts Merlin on the shoulder. Merlin has to say, “Easy,” multiple times and in a soothing tone to get Culhwch to come down from his strop. “Why are we arguing again?”

Arthur ducks his head. “It's just... it's a dangerous activity and Anduine is about to give birth anyway. There'll be a new colt for m--” He scratches at his hair, raising it in tufts – “Pendragon and I just want you to be prudent.”

As he continues to massage Culhwch's muzzle, Merlin says, “I'm always prudent. And he's not the first I've broken. I promise Arthur, everything is going to be fine.”

Merlin moves closer to Culhwch and leans over him so as to let him get used to the feeling of him being there. Horses, Merlin has learnt by dint of being thrown quite a lot, often worry about who's hovering over them, considering them a threat. Wiser now than he was when he started in the profession, Merlin always advertises his presence.

After he's made sure Culhwch is balanced he settles in the saddle, pushing down gradually until he's rested all his weight on it.

Culhwch paws the ground but is responsive when Merlin gently tugs at the reins. He starts slow and lurches out of the stables in fits and starts. Merlin doesn't control his pace. He's just content with letting Culhwch get used to him.

Watchful, Arthur follows them on foot.

Merlin tries to get Culhwch to go at an extended walk, trying to have him to fall into a pattern comprised of lengthier steps. When Culhwch's back hoof-tracks surpass those of his front feet, Merlin pronounces himself satisfied.

He leans forwards in the saddle and rakes his hand down the horse's powerful neck, caressing him till Culhwch starts moving more easily at the new pace. When he's settled down, Merlin says, “Good boy, easy does it.”

At the same pace they reach the fields the property borders. Arthur leans against the fence marking them, watching them practice from afar, a foot on the fence's lowest rail.

Merlin meanwhile lets himself sink into the monotone of a slow trot, Culhwch's legs moving in diagonal pairs, alternating from in to out with each step.

Merlin knows this training routine by heart. He repeats the same soothing words he chants at every bewildered mount, until the animal under him understands what it is Merlin wants as well as the approval he laces his tone with.

His hand is firm on the reins, his signals, conveyed with a knee or a slightly sharper tug, are equally clear, unhesitating. Vocally he isn't sharp or impatient.

Finishing his first routine, Merlin teaches Culhwch another. He only moves onto the next one when he's confident that the preceding one is accomplished without a glitch and with comfort on the horse's part.

He introduces the trot only gradually, beginning his instructing routine from step one again.

“You're doing great,” Arthur calls out from his position at the fence. “He's practically broken.”

“Don't judge too soon,” Merlin tells him, though he lightly spurs Culhwch to get him to dance into side steps for Arthur.

Arthur laughs.

“He's not a Lippizaner,” Arthur shouts out of cupped hands.

Merlin yells back, “Ooops, my bad.” He wants to add something to that, maybe say something about how he's never noticed Culhwch's brown colour, but he can't roll the words off his tongue. He just sits there straddling the saddle, his breath caught in his throat from admiring Arthur, daylight framing him and highlighting him and making him look out of this world gorgeous.

Maybe Merlin is a little bit in love.

Which, yeah, is a scary thought and not appropriate for work hours. He'd better concentrate on poor Culhwch here.

Hours of more practice follow, until Culhwch, responds to both knee and rein signals, transitioning from one task to another, swiftly and obediently. Merlin's mind is not in it though.

He sends Arthur too frequent glances, and when Arthur smiles or claps he gets completely distracted. That's why his command of the reins when he and Culhwch segue into a trot slackens.

Culhwch, like most animals, must have noted his lack of attention. The little leeway he's given is enough to go to his head. It's freedom to him, a liberty to move in the way he's accustomed to without giving thought to the person checking him or the human burden he's bearing.

Happy with this freedom, Culhwch pitches sideways and rears, throwing Merlin.

Merlin lands on his back some distance away, momentarily winded, but altogether fine. Nothing aches or throbs. He's managed to fall the way he knows won't cause too much damage, a trick a jockey once taught him.

Arthur though doesn't know that, so he leaps over the fence and comes running to him. He's all over him before Merlin can assure him that he is indeed fine. Merlin's got Arthur's fingers carded through his hair, and his mouth at his neck, before he can say, “Hey, hey, it's all good. Not the first time this has happened.”

Arthur draws back the little bit necessary to look into his eyes, his own sizzling with anger and something decidedly softer. “Don't ever--”

“What, don't ever get thrown?” Merlin asks, absently rubbing down his back, much more intent on Arthur's gaze than massaging the pain out of his joints. “It's my job to--”

Without signalling his intention, Arthur joins their mouths in a kiss, deep, desperate, moving his tongue inside as if he wants to taste all of Merlin. A hand alights on his back, another cradles his face.

The dull roar in his ears the kiss instilled grows exponentially. Merlin releases a sob. He should have protested or said he's perfectly capable of looking after himself. He could even have thrown in a line about how Arthur shouldn't worry so much for every little fall and tumble. Yet he doesn't because he's steeped in the moment. He feels safe and cherished, so he doesn't stop Arthur.

The kiss goes on till Merlin's dizzy with it.

"Merlin..." Arthur says, raspy, and Merlin can spot the worry in his tone.

His hand skates down his scalp and around to the back of his neck. He moves to lean over Merlin, pushing him back onto the soft, tickly grass, whispering in his ear. And Merlin can't explain why he's allowing this to happen while he's on the clock, why he feels he wants to make love to Arthur here and now. It's as though having Arthur – now, now, now – is the one thing that's going to placate the bone deep ache he feels for him.

"Please," Arthur says, a propos nothing in particular.

And Merlin goes, “Arthur.”

But then the soft crunch of boots on gravel stops them.

Merlin has only time to think 'shit' and 'here I get the sack'.

Muscles quivering in place, Arthur tenses, but then he's quick to act. He shields Merlin with his body, so that Merlin can't even see who's interrupted them, and says, “You haven't seen this, please.”

The other person gasps, then rushes out, “Of course, I...”

Judging by that voice Merlin recognises Gwen, a girl belonging to the staff at the manor. Merlin's rarely been up there, needing only to hang around the stables to carry out his job, but he knows Gwen a little bit. He gave her a lift once. And he's heard of her from Gaius too. Her reputation is a good one, that of a sweet girl with her head on her shoulders and a lot of backbone.

At the thought that it's her who's discovered them dilly-dallying on the job, Merlin relaxes. He doesn't think Gwen will report them.

Having been at the manor for a shorter time and not aware of Gwen's character, Arthur is still a ball of nerves though. He only calms a little when Gwen adds, “I won't, si--”

Arthur shakes his head.

“I promise I won't breathe a word.”

And then Merlin hears her take off at a run.

With a sigh, Arthur picks himself up and helps Merlin stand. There are still tension lines around his mouth, so Merlin tries to ease his nerves by saying, “Hey, she's all right. She won't talk.”

Arthur nods, looks to the distance, where the manor is. “I just."

Considering his mouth is hanging open, Arthur might have said more, but Culhwch, forgotten until now, butts his head against the low gate, threatening to go walkabout.

Merlin runs over to him, to stop him meandering where he shouldn't. Thankfully Culhwch just releases a snort and stands still, allowing Merlin to grab the reins.

At a jog Arthur comes up to them. “You're hurt. By tonight your back will be screaming blue murder. Let me finish the job for today.”

“You're new,” Merlin says, reminding Arthur of his greenie limits.

“I picked up a lot watching you,” he says, bypassing Merlin, getting hold of the bridles, putting his foot in the stirrup, and levering himself up in the saddle.

Though Arthur's a bit heavier than Merlin, Culhwch accepts his weight without the slightest complaint.

Incredibly considering how new Arthur is, it's Arthur who teaches Culhwch to gallop bearing a rider. On the saddle he's like a natural, possessing perfect command of his mount, a certain flair and style and a great seat.

Only now does Merlin understand why Arthur wanted to become a groom in the first place. He's gifted, a rider born, if not bred. There's a grace to him on horseback that usually only comes with long years of practice, to those who spend lots of times in the saddle. If this wasn't the wrong day and age Arthur could be a jousting knight he's so good at it.

Well, Merlin thinks to himself, as he leans against the fence, that's lucky. This way Uther Pendragon will have his horse broken for his son, Arthur will be happy doing Merlin a favour and Merlin will be able to rest his back.

While shouting advice at Arthur, of course.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says, swinging Culhwch round with the reins. “I've got this.”

His smile is one Merlin wants to remember for as long as he breathes.

 

*****

 

“Anduine is about to give birth,” Arthur tells him as he joins him by the supply van.

“Are you sure it's not a false labour?” Merlin asks, unloading his fifth bale of hay today. “She's gone through quite a few colics this month.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says grimly. “She's waxing and all.” Arthur pauses mid speech, then adds, “And it's not looking good.”

Merlin lets go of the wheelbarrow. It sharply tanks. “What do you mean?”

Arthur's eyebrows are drawn together when he says in a small, pained voice, “She lay down an hour ago and nothing's happening.”

Merlin knows it's bad news. In Merlin's experience a mare generally gives birth within twenty or thirty minutes. Delays are cause for concern. “Has there been any progress at all?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, that's why I came.”

Merlin nods firmly then takes off at a run, Arthur after him.

When he reaches Anduine's stall, the sight that greets him is a sorry one. Anduine is straining and and groaning with the contractions, rolling over in violent motions that break Merlin's heart in two. There's no doubt that she's ready either. She's lying in gallons of clear, slightly yellow fluid. Her waters must have broken.

“Something's not right,” Merlin says, tipping some disinfectant in a bucket and washing his arms and hands in it. “Tie her hind feet together.

Arthur hesitates, but Anduine is sweating and pawing, clearly suffering, and Arthur at last springs into action, doing what Merlin told him to.

When Anduine is ready, Merlin feels inside her. Her cervix is open, so he attempts to find the foal in her uterus. When he does touch it, he curses. “Shit, I feel a head.”

“So it's...”

“Malpositioned,” Merlin says, pulling his hands out. “I should be feeling feet. They should be angled sideways or with the soles down. What's sure is that they shouldn't be where they are.”

Arthur looks at the picture Merlin and Anduine cut out of big, sad eyes that are shiny with tears. “What do we do? Is-- is there a way to save her?”

Merlin quickly washes his hands with the bar of soap they keep for circumstances similar to this. “I'll go get old Doctor King. Without him...”

Clearly drawing the only possible conclusion given the tenor of Merlin's words, Arthur startles. Despite the need to hurry, though, he makes a grab for Merlin. “Can't you go for another doctor?”

Merlin wonders why Arthur doesn't want him to fetch King, but there's no time for questions like that. Perhaps Arthur knows King and doesn't like him. The neighbourhood Arthur currently lives in isn't that big. Or maybe he's heard Merlin mention that King is old and doesn't trust his skills are up to scratch. It doesn't matter. Poor Anduine is suffering and her fretting is cleaving Merlin's heart. He just can't witness her pain, tarry, or worse cause the foal to die.

“Not, really, no,” he says, loping towards the exit. Then he adds more soothingly, “He may be old but he's the one Gaius said to fetch in emergency cases and he's nearest vet too.” Merlin makes for his Jeep at a lope. “We don't have much of a choice.”

Arthur nods. “Merlin,” he starts again, something clearly on his mind.

But Merlin's already behind the wheel, searching for his keys. “Yeah?”

“I just want you to know that--”

“Ha,” Merlin says, when he locates them behind the sun shield. “There they are.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, his hand on the passenger door, his knee on the seat. “You've got to listen to me. It's about Doctor King.”

Merlin turns the key in the ignition, lowering the clutch next. “Arthur, that can wait. Go to her. She must be in a right panic.”

“Yes, but wait,” Arthur tries again, but Merlin's car's already shifting into reverse and Arthur's left with nothing to do but close the door and yell, “We'll talk later.”

With his thoughts focused on Anduine and everything that can possibly go wrong, Merlin forgives himself for not listening to Arthur's qualms about Doctor King. Right now the man's the only hope they have.

On his way to the vet's office Merlin drives a little recklessly. He curses when he gets stuck in a traffic jam. And cusses when another vehicle cuts in front of him. What's sure is that he's never used the horn as much before.

After some judicious short-cutting he parks his Jeep sideways in a space that's too small for it then makes for Doctor King's practice at a run. He sails right past the door and up to the receptionist's desk, and, panting, says, “I need Doctor King.” His hands are on his knees and his elocution is not of the most brilliant, but despite that he explains the nature of the emergency that has him claiming the doctor's attention. “It's one of our mares; she's giving birth and the foal's malpositioned.”

“I'm afraid Doctor King has a patient,” the receptionist says, not sounding particularly sorry about it, but rather put out by Merlin's abrupt opener.

So as not to be rude to her, Merlin clutches his car keys tight in his grip. “I get that, but it's an emergency. I'd be happy with the Doctor's assistant, if he's around.” Then seeing she's not moved he goes for the jugular. “Please, or Anduine will die.”

Despite his anguished tone, the receptionist still doesn't seem convinced the occasion calls for extreme measures such as disrupting Doctor King's routines.

Merlin's starting sweating cold sweat at the thought that he won't be able to save Anduine after all when the door to his left opens and old Doctor King comes out, wearing his white coat. “What's all this ruckus about? I was giving Ms Thompson's poodle his booster shot.”

Doctor King's receptionist starts explaining, probably to denounce Merlin's rather rumbustious entry.

Before she can set the doctor against him, Merlin starts talking over her. “It's an emergency,” he says, voice shaking with both impatience and fear for the consequences of his failing in his mission. “It's Anduine. The foal is coming feet first. I checked. Without you I don't know what to do.”

“How long has this been going on?” Dr King asks, attention snagged.

The poodle waiting for vaccination barks out from the depths of the other room.

Despite the noise, Merlin tries to explain as clearly as he can. “I wasn't the one to notice at first, but reportedly the contractions started more than an hour ago.”

“And you're sure she's malpresenting?”

“I touched the foal's feet,” Merlin says, determined to share all he knows with the doctor.

As Merlin presents his case, the poodle from the other room comes yapping in, trying to bite at Doctor King's calf. Doctor King picks it up and looks back at his exam room.

Merlin fears he'll go back to it, so he says, “Please, Doctor, without a professional treating her Anduine is lost.”

Dr King nods and then says to his receptionist, “Please, Catrina, tell my other appointments that all visits are postponed.”

“But, Fisher, we've got two more distemper shots to administer at the very least and Mr Craig's cat is...”

Dr King takes off his gloves and consignes the poodle to Catrina. “I'm afraid a birthing mare with a malpresentation will take the precedence,” he says, causing Merlin's heart to lift in his chest. Then he ducks into the exam room once more.

Merlin's hopes take a dive again, thinking that Doctor King will be awhile at whatever he's doing in there, and then soar again when he sees the vet re-emerge bearing his bag. “Let's go,” he says to Merlin as he slips into his coat.

The drive back is in heavy traffic, taking longer than the journey to the vet's. This is probably due to the fact every time Merlin tries to floor the accelerator, Doctor King scowls at him. Not that the man's wrong in sending him reproachful glances. He shouldn't be driving like a crazed banshee in the outskirts of a town, but he can't help himself.

The last stretch fortunately allows for some smoother manouevering because he isn't swamped by the limits of a residential and only has to fend with the turnings of a country road.

The signs announcing the boundaries of the Pendragon property have never been a more welcome sight in Merlin's life.

Speeding up the park's drive, he makes it to the stables in record time.

Both he and the doctor hardly wait before they throw open the car doors and make for the building.

When they make it to the stall, it's to see Arthur kneeling in the hay by Anduine, touching her sweaty muzzle. “Can you save her?” he asks, his eyes full of pity for the animal, his voice full of hope.

The doctor puts his bag down and disinfects his hands in the same vat Merlin used. “I'll do my best, Mr Pendragon.”

At those words, Merlin's world comes crashing down, his heart gives a painful lurch and for a moment all he can hear is white noise. He knows Arthur's looking to him with large, sad, pleading eyes but a pain is gripping him that he doesn't know how to stem.

Instead of what Doctor King is currently telling him all he hears are repeats of King's previous statement, his recognition of Arthur as a Pendragon. Mixed with that Merlin experiences flashbacks to Arthur's own words, how he's Arthur Pevensey, how they should go for another doctor who's not King, how he made a case for the well-off. And it all makes sense.

It's Doctor King who snaps him out of his memory lane reverie, saying, “If I don't get some help I won't be able to deliver her, young man.”

Merlin blinks then, tamping down on his feelings and reminding himself of Anduine's predicament. “What should I do?”

“Clean your hands first, then come here.”

Scrupulously avoiding Arthur's eyes, Merlin does as he's told.

As Arthur pets Anduine -- never forgetting to try and catch Merlin's eyes -- King busies himself with the medical aspects of the situation. In a flurry of movement the Doctor disinfects himself together with a length of string he untangles, then approaches Anduine and proceeds to explore the mare's uterus.

“All right, I can touch the foal,” he says. Then, he reveals what the string is for, instructing Merlin carefully as to what he's to do with it. “I want you to pull firmly on this string while I push the head back, can you do that?”

Lips pressed together, Merlin nods.

Arthur watches the Doctor and Merlin out of worried eyes, but doesn't interrupt the flow of their concentration.

Merlin is all for ignoring him. He keeps his focus on what Doctor King is bidding him do.

“Right, pull firmly, now,” the Doctor says and Merlin does, hoping he isn't using too much force. Doctor King's hands move; his forehead lines with strain. “I'm trying to--” He pauses, pressing his forehead against his arm to dab at the sweat forming there – “pull the legs around so she can foal normally.”

Merlin steps back, watches half in horror as Doctor King strains and grunts. All the while Anduine whimpers and neighs, kicks her legs and snorts. Her eyes are so spirited with the pain of fruitless labour, Merlin is of half a mind to stop the torture for her. They have a rifle back at the house; they would surely lend it to him in such a situation.

Doctor King shakes his head, saying, “I'm trying to shove the foal as far back as I can so I can move its head.”

For more reasons than one Merlin's heart is being ripped from his chest. A foal is hope, a good sign, and even that's gone... He can't see from the tears veiling his eyes. “Maybe,” he says brokenly, “if she's suffering so much--”

But then Doctor Fishes says, “Ha, ha,” and steps back.

Merlin takes that to be an indicator of good things to come.

Rapt, he watches as Anduine struggles to birth her foal, though this time nature can take its course. A foot appears then the next. Merlin's not at a prime angle to see but he knows what it means. The birth is impending.

After a short while the nose comes out between the foal's legs. It sticks out, recedes, and then peeks out again. The rest of the neck, front legs, shoulders, chest, pelvis and back legs appear a little at a time.

Before long Merlin's witness to the foal's first attempts at standing without crashing down. He smiles when he takes in the shaking legs, the unsure pace, the round eyes. He fans his hands before his face, tears streaming down for real this time, as the foal finds his mother and starts nursing.

Now that the emergency seems past, Doctor King starts a physical on both the mare and the foal. As the doctor is busy with both animals, Arthur tries to approach Merlin but Merlin makes sure to keep the stall's partition between the two of them.

When Doctor King has pronounced himself satisfied that his patients are fine, Arthur and Merlin, mutually wordlessly, lead him back to the house so the man can have a proper wash.

Merlin uses the opportunity to do the same but when he's done Arthur ambushes him on the way to the drawing room, where whisky and an armchair are awaiting Doctor King.

“Please,” Arthur says, blocking the way in and making Merlin dream of retreat. “Let me explain.”

“And what would you explain?” Merlin asks flatly. “The lies?”

“I never lied!” Arthur exclaims, voice climbing to a high pitch.

Merlin scoffs. It's the only reaction that comes naturally.

Arthur lowers his voice and says, “I know I let you assume I was--”

Merlin really has to pitch in, because what Arthur's about to say takes the cake, no actually a whole confectionery. “Someone else entirely, someone you fabricated.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow at him. ‘The person you wanted me to be.’

Arthur must be pulling his leg; Merlin's face goes hot. “So now it's my fault?”

Arthur crowds him against the wall. And though he looms close he's not touching Merlin, rather leaning his head against the wainscoting, all the fight going out of him “You just thought I was this person I wasn't and I thought...’

“Let me fuck him and then drop him?” Merlin anticipates, grim. He can't think of any other plans that could have posssibly been motivating Arthur.

“What, no!” Arthur says, straightening as if he's been lashed. His eyes train hard on Merlin, but then he lets his shoulders go down and, sounding defeated, adds, “Not that many people like me because of who I am--”

Merlin has a hard time believing that. Arthur's handsome, rich and a Pendragon. Of course people gravitate towards him. Besides, Arthur has a reputation for being a sought after bachelor. Merlin may not know the Pendragons but he knows of them. So he makes disparaging noises meant to convey what he thinks of Arthur's words.

“It's true though,” Arthur says, his eyes trying to catch Merlin's errant ones. “And there you were, someone who liked me for who I was, or so I thought.” These last words sound more bitter. “And the more I knew you, the clearer it was that I wanted you and you'd never want me, not if you knew.”

Merlin can't quite believe his ears. “Please,” he says, mentally going back over his own behaviour, “that's not true. I was practically pathetic with how much I wanted you.”

“You were always on a tirade against the rich--” Arthur says, tipping an eyebrow. “I wanted to tell you. I tried. But it wasn't easy so--”

In review that is true. Merlin can pinpoint the moments Arthur tried. But Merlin still doesn't think that justifies Arthur. “So you lied.”

Arthur's shoulders slump. “I wanted you to like me with everything I had in me. I've never been so carefree--”

Merlin ducks his head. “Of course.”

“And happy--”

Merlin's heart lurches from side to side in his chest, going kaboom. ‘Because it wasn't real. It was playing pretend,’ he says softly, almost to himself.

The line of Arthur's mouth thins. “The only thing that was fake was my pretend identity, the rest was me and if you can't see that--”

To Merlin’s dismay tears threaten to spill, but he forces himself to look at Arthur. “So it's my fault--’

Arthur’s eyes grow darker and he thrusts his chin out. “No, I made a mistake. I was stupid. I acted giddily and without thinking, there was this big disconnect between what I knew was right and what I ended up doing.”

“But you still hurt me,” Merlin says, his voice breaking roughly. He means this to be the last time he lowers his defences. But it's very true and he wants Arthur to know what he's done to him, how he's thrown him for a loop, before it's completely over between them. Actually he's got to repress an instinct to shout and make a scene.

He's still trying to curb that little voice inside him that wants to tell Arthur exactly how he feels about what he did, when Arthur's suddenly moves very close and a wave of sharp, belly stabbing longing comes over Merlin, especially when Arthur says, “I'm sorry I did.”

For a moment Merlin almost wants to believe that Arthur is sorry. He almost wants to say that all's forgotten.

Arthur must have read Merlin's face, or his mind, for he puts his hand to the back of Merlin's neck, fingers brushing against the ends of his hair to pull him close.

Merlin wants to give in. He wants to melt against Arthur and kiss him; take him and act as thought there's nothing wrong with the situation he stumbled in before knowing who Arthur was. But there is. He was a fool and fell for it, for the wiles of the rich handsome type he thought he was exempt from admiring. Fool me once though. “I'm,” he says, his heart shrivelling and dying in his chest even as he says it. "I'm quit."

Arthur's eyes widen, but then the pupils go back to looking like pins. “I can understand your decision.”

“No, I mean I'm quit with this job and this life and everything.”

Arthur wraps a hand around his forearm, stopping him from tearing away at great speed. “Please, no. Don't let me do this to you.”

“You've got nothing to do with this,” Merlin says, voice tight around the lump blocking his throat. “It's all my decision. You don't have to look after the poor working class sod who doesn't understand what he's doing.”

Arthur's forehead muscles tick with annoyance. His lips flatten. He even goes ramrod straight. “You're more prejudiced than you care to admit--”

“Yeah, blame me--”

“But,” Arthur continues, the pressure of his fingers a reminder of the importance of his message, “I made this mess. It's my duty to sort it out. There's no reason for you to quit a job you're good at.”

Once more Merlin's heart threatens to jump out of his chest, pride swells him inside him and he knows all of this upheaval is because Arthur thinks him good. To insulate himself from Arthur's praise, he makes his voice go cold and his mind empty of all thought, because all thought is Arthur. “Why, thank you.”

Arthur frowns at the sarcasm he can't have failed to have latched on, but ploughs on, “So let me be the one to go--”

“Far from me to drive you from house and home--”

“I can finish my thesis back in Oxford,” he says and this time he's pleading, his eyes shining.

Merlin's weighing his options, fighting his instinct to just run and never look back when Doctor King joins them, ignoring all tense undercurrents and saying, “I thought you mentioned an invigorating shot of whisky?”

Holding himself rigid, Arthur steps back away from Merlin and says, “But of course, Doctor.”

With Arthur leading Doctor King into the drawing room and measuring out a dram of whisky for him, Merlin feels at liberty to flee. So instead of rejoining them, he turns his back on them and stalks off.

As his pace gets quicker, his lungs fill to bursting, till he feels like he's choking. And then he runs. He goes as fast as he can down these elegant corridors and hall and doesn't regret the recklessness of the action one bit.

“Watch out,” a footman yells after him, after he nearly trips into the carpet runner, but then Merlin doesn't care because he's almost free of this house.

He only stops sprinting faster than his body should be able to take when he's close to hacking up a lung.

Entirely by chance since he hasn't been look where he's going, he makes it back to the stables, his domain. So there's that for a consolation, the calming power of an oft trodden place.

He wants to feel relief at being away from prying eyes, at being able to let out steam if he wants, but none comes.

It's like everything inside him has gone as dry and dust. He leans agaisnt the stables perimeter wall, his arm against it and his forehead against his arm, and just waits for feeling, any manner of it, to come back to him.

 

****

 

Merlin's flat never looked so cramped to him before. He paces the length of his lunge, launches himself at his sofa, tries watching telly only to find himself deeply unsatisfied with every single programme he latches on.

That's when he tries pacing again. He nearly runs a rut in his floor, but his thoughts won't stop swirling, going round and round in loops he's getting a headache from.

“Okay, this is it,” he says out loud and to no one in particular.

If he's to be the victim of a headache he wants it to come after he's had some fun at least. After the day he's had he fucking deserves it.

So, instead of staying cooped up at home, he hies himself off to the pub.

Will finds him there, sitting on a stool, nursing his second – possibly – beer. With a healthy flair, he claps a hand on Merlin's back and climbs on the perch next to his. “Oi, what's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong,” Merlin says, patting the surface of the counter in repetitive fashion, tracing the grooves and swirls of the wood with the pads of his fingers.

“Oh come on,” Will says, waggling his eyebrows. “I can recognise a Merlin attempt to get hammered from a mile off.”

Merlin buries his nose in his pint glass but doesn't drink. “It's nothing important.” Merlin's been telling himself this all evening and, Christ, he's going to make this true, somehow. “Really.”

“Yeah, that 'really' at the end there makes me buy it.”

Merlin breathes out through his nose, the taste of hop on his tongue. “You remember Arthur?”

“Sure,” Will says, haling the barman and making a sign two with his hand to indicate he wants another one of what Merlin's having. “The prick.”

Merlin's automatic response is, “He's not a prick,” though of course that's just his tongue tripping. He's since revised his opinion, hasn't he? “That is...”

“That is?” Will prompts.

“You remember how I said he was the new stablehand?”

Will, now merrily guzzling the beer he's just been handed over, nods.

“Well, he's not a stablehand,” Merlin says, flushing to the tips of his ears when he considers how gullible he was, especially if he goes over the hints he now sees Arthur let drop all over the place. “He's Uther Pendragon's son.”

Will spits beer out of his nostrils. “Come again?”

So Merlin tells him everything,(minus details of the sex). His clean breast is enough to prompt Will to say, “No you're right. This calls for a proper binge.”

Merlin nods in agreement and lifts his pint glass.

Will presses his arm down. “Not beer. This calls for Jaeger Bombs.”

They leave the local pub for a would-be grungy, dirty bar in the outskirts of town no one in their right mind would willingly enter. But then again Merlin's not in a state to make pondered decisions and Will's never made one in his life.

They have the aforementioned Jaeger Bombs and order progressively more fruity and alcoholic drinks. By two AM Merlin's sense of hearing has gone buzzy, his perception of the space around him has been severely impaired, and his stomach seems to have lost its lining. However, thankfully, Will has stopped ranting about the lurking evils of the aristocracy and about how right he was in pinning Arthur down as a knob.

Despite puking his soul out in the loo, Merlin leaves the bar in a better mood than he entered it.

The same cannot be said of the next morning. Merlin wakes when the sun's so far up in the sky it's flooded his room despite his perfectly effective black out curtains. His mouth tastes like cadaver, and his stomach heaves and rolls in a way that would only be justifiable at sea.

Merlin's habitual morning ritual is cancelled in favour of vomiting and a second arbitrary nap taken on the bathroom rug.

When he's up and about again, he feels like a human being once more, albeit one who's taken a trip to hell. More sober, he investigates his kitchen. There's nothing he wants to eat, even the thought of edibles threatens to send him on a downwards barfing spiral, and by then his nausea has kicked back in. So he just stares at the countertop contemplating nothingness.

That's when, miserable again but more alert, he remembers what happened the night before, what he did coming back in glorius detail. He's also reminded of what he's so far forgotten to do.

For the longest time he doesn't dare approach the phone. At first it's because he wants to find the perfect words to tell Gaius he's quitting. Then it's because he basks in a half hour long self-pity fest. And later still because he wants to think this quitting lark through; he must take the animals into consideration, give notice and train someone who can assist them lovingly. Only then can he go.

It's when he considers that he's left Anduine to fend for herself on such an important day, right when she might need him, that Merlin skips the phone entirely and drives to work.

He knows he's in for the dressing down of the century. And he knows he'll probably have to face the music, i.e., Arthur. But he can't go without ascertaining that Anduine's okay and that the foal is as healthy as he left him.

Even though he feels he has no more right to, he parks the car in his usual spot and wobbles to the stables.

As expected Gaius, has subbed for him after finding out that the stables were still locked up. Gaius' stern eyebrow raise and reprimand are equally foreseeable, even before they actually materialise. “You could have at least phoned,” Gaius says, voice rising and rising.

Merlin is perfectly aware of that. He doesn't say that he was not in a condition to raise the handset from the cradle, being pretty much dead to the world. He doesn't claim he's not responsible for the way he's behaved either. Though Arthur has fucked with him – never phrase has been more apt – and his will to keep at this job, yesterday's débâcle and today's shambles are totally Merlin's fault. Rubbing the side of his scalp, he says, “I don't know what to say.”

“Sorry would be a start,” says Gaius, not at all pleased.

Merlin nods. “I apologise, I was stupid and...”

Gaius tuts a little, much less brusque than before. “Though you should've warned me, this is a first so I'm going to be lenient. Your track record is perfect after all, and I do remember what it's like to be young and fetter free.”

Merlin winces. “About that,” Merlin says, fully intending to offer his resignations, but trying to find words that won't offend Gaius, “I think the time has come for me to--”

The rumble of an engine distracts him. A shiny, slick, silvery Jaguar coasts the drive towards the gate. Merlin's sixth sense has barely had time to tingle, telling him that that car must belong to Arthur, when the Jaguar comes to an abrupt stop.

Arthur does emerge from its interior. With assured step, he crosses the winding path that separates the drive from the stables area, incongruously shiny, city slicker black loafers sinking deep in wet green grass, the sun shining behind him and enfolding him in its glow.

Merlin has all the time in the world to feel his heart go to stone and crumble into tiny pieces before Arthur's made it to them, his expression unreadable, his mouth pressed into a firm line and his eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.

Even before Arthur speaks, Merlin wants nothing more than to blurt out, “We need to talk.” But he doesn't, something in Arthur's cold front putting that option out of the question. So he lets regret wash over him like a bitter pill and wraps it around him like a comfort blanket.

Arthur acknowledges both him and Gaius. “I thought I should give you these,” he says, mainly to Gaius, as he hands him a key ring. “Since I'm moving back to Oxford and all.”

Merlin's not sure he's imagined it, but he thinks Arthur's flicked him a tiny glance there, a furtive, out-of-the-corner-of-his-eyes peek. Merlin can't investigate further because Gaius immediately reacts the way Merlin should have at sight of those keys. “Why, what are these for?”

“New horse transport,” Arthur says hurriedly, flushing all over. “For the foal.” He rakes a hand through his scalp, back to front, tousling his hair. “It seemed like a nice welcome to the world gift.”

The component parts of Merlin's heart all give a rattle and shake. It quite hurts.

“Well,” Arthur says, taking a step back, his eyes once again encompassing Merlin, who's never felt smaller than now, the after effects of a hangover flaring like neon lights on his features, his words from yesterday resounding in his ears. “I'd better get going. Want to be home before nightfall.”

“Thank you for the gift,” Gaius says, holding the keys up in the air, the afternoon sun making them shine like a part of a golden treasure hoard. “I hope we'll see you at Christmas.”

“Maybe,” Arthur says, as he retreats. “Maybe not. See you, Gaius.”

There's no goodbye for Merlin so Merlin feels like a stupid, inconsequential little sod holding his hand up to wave.

The Jaguar lifts a thick cloud of ombre dust as it speeds down the last tract of the drive and out of the manor.

 

****

 

Over the next few months life is quiet at the manor but Merlin likes it so. He puts his all into his job, into the duties that go with it, and more specifically into overseeing the foal's rearing.

As such things are wont to do, it takes time. His life becomes regulated by natural rhythms, those of the stables. It's all about waking up early – earlier than usual – doing spots of manual labour to make the stables foal proof, and getting steeped in the activities typical of a groom. He feeds the horses, grooms them, exercises them.

He starts imprinting training on Griflet – the name's Merlin chosen for the foal in the owners' absence – only a day after Arthur's departure and even after that continues habituating him to the stimuli he'll have to encounter as a domestic horse.

Making sure that Anduine's there so she won't reject her foal, Merlin ties her up where she can see them and starts on the routine exercises.

In an attempt to minimise Griflet's fear responses, he touches the foal from nose to tail and from ears to hooves. The goal is to get him used to being prodded in the areas that will be handled during farriery and veterinary examinations. Merlin also means to desensitise him to pressure around the saddle area.

He starts by kneeling at his back and grasping Griflet's muzzle, flexing it gently to the withers.

Anduine looks like she wants to intervene to protect her offspring, neighing and getting spirited. Since he can't make her understand that the procedure is for the foal's own good, Merlin's quite glad he tied her. He wouldn't fancy being in her presence and doing this if she wasn't.

Simulating shoeing or trimming, he flexes Griflet's leg and taps on it, continuing in spite of the foal's initial struggles. After a while Merlin's rewarded with total relaxation.

Over a few days Merlin obtains excellent results so in the following weeks he finds himself able to easily break Griflet to new activities like tying and taking the lead.

After the four months mark, Merlin starts thinking about weaning Griflet. Since the experience can be stressful for the foal Merlin gets nervous himself, not wanting to inflict pain on his favourite (Merlin shouldn't have any but he does). Even so he knows that the time has come for weaning to happen.

He's struggling to choose between the abrupt and gradual method, when Gaius surprises him by saying, “Just do something, Merlin. Don't be this dithering mess.”

Merlin decides to go the roundabout way. He takes Anduine to an adjacent stall for a few days, the fence not permitting nursing, and puts food and water buckets on the side of the stall nearest the dam. At first Griflet kicks and bumps against the partition to be rejoined with his mum, but Merlin has proofed it for sturdiness and after a while Griflet comes down his high anyway and accepts the new staus quo.

Since he has already taught Griflet to lead while Anduine was present all he has to do now is take him for walks away from his mum. Merlin's right on his training track because Griflet is comfortable with that, which has Merlin sigh a sigh of relief.

All that's left is adjusting Anduine's diet now she's no longer nursing. Drying up and a menu consisting of fewer grains are up next for her.

As a result of these activities and all the efforts he puts into his job at such a critical time, Merlin doesn't have a moment to do much else than work.

At first Will calls him but after a few rebuttals even he gives up. Merlin fully means to make it up to him in the near future but now's not the time. He's got his hands full and there's something incredibly soothing in losing himself in the intricacies of a job he would have been mad to quit.

After it's become clear that Merlin's social life has shrunk to nothingness – a fact he can freely admit to himself – Gaius takes to inviting him for tea at his house. It's a small cottage on the manor premises; every room is small and quaint and the stairs leading to the first floor creak with every step. But the parlour's cosy and there's a fireplace there, which helps Merlin's bones thaw during the winter months.

It's on one such occasion, with the rain battering at the window panes and condensation fogging them up, that Gaius opens up a new subject. “Uther's bought a new horse.”

“The gift for Arthur,” Merlin breathes out, remembering a conversation he had with Arthur about this topic.

“Yes,” Gaius says, before taking a further sip of his tea, his feet extended towards the fireplace grid. “It is. Arthur's defended his thesis so Uther thought fit to gift him with a horse.”

Though Merlin's heart does a slow whirl at the thought that Arthur might come to see his gift, he acts as though that's not the case. He says, “I'm happy Uther chose a present that fits Arthur so. I mean he truly loves horses, has a hand with them.”

Gaius hums distractedly around the brim of his cup, though his face changes, takes on a tighter quality to it. “There'll be a bit more work for you to do with the new arrival,” is what Gaius chooses to tell him though Merlin suspects he's just opted out of commenting on Merlin's take on Arthur.

Merlin taps his fingers against his cup, his feet thumping against the rug in unison. “You know I won't shy away from a little extra work.”

“Well then,” Gaius says with a certain gleeful insouciance, “seeing as you won't be lacking in work in the coming weeks, you'll be overjoyed.”

Merlin's checking out the fence line when the new horse is delivered. Even though he momentarily checks for Arthur he isn't too disappointed when he learns that the giftee isn't present. It's all for the best. Arthur must know what he wants and Merlin, now that the first wash of anger and disappointment is past, only wishes him to get it.

“It's a beauty, isn't he?” one of the delivery boys says, patting the new mount along its powerful sides. “I'd walk over hot coals for a horse like that.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, admiring the new horse. “Yeah, he is.”

“With what this beauty cost, from a Sultan's stables no less, the owner must be a tosser not to want to be here to see him.”

“The owner's got his reasons,” Merlin says, moving to the other side of the gangplank that's propped against the back of the horse transport. “Now let's entice this black beauty to the stables.”

Arthur's gift horse being already grown up and trained, Merlin doesn't have much to do but ease the new mount into a life at Pendragon Manor. He just needs to make sure the horse – name pending since Arthur's not here – acclimates fine. Since Black Beauty – as Merlin's dubbed him in his head, is big, smart and even-tempered – he does get used to his new home quite quickly, to the point he swiftly gets friendly with Merlin and is soon found to be eyeing Anduine for a partner.

Black Beauty might not bring Arthur with him but he does conjure up a party of people consisting of Uther Pendragon, his friend Michael Gawant and the latter's daughter, Elena, to see him. They get treated to a special tour of the stables Merlin's entrusted with giving.

During the first part of it, Merlin leads the trio round the stables. Gawant has many questions about the running of them because, as he says, he's the proud owner of one or two sets of stables too.

“Oh, yes, we have lots and lots of dear horses,” Elena comments. “There's Tyrone and Bette and...”

The queries are specific and go into horrific detail. If Merlin didn't know the ins and outs of the Pendragon stables the way he does, that is like the back of his hand, he'd be at a loss to come up with answers. But answer he does, even under the unbending and steely eyes of Uther Pendragon himself.

The second part of the tour takes a different form. While Uther and Mr Gawant are left to admire Black Beauty, Elena loops her arm round his and walks him away, her galoshes making a splash in the mud, throwing it everywhere but most particularly up the sides of Merlin's jeans.

Promenading in circles around one of the pens, she says, “I know you.”

Merlin ups both his eyebrows. “Yeah, I'd say we've been introduced now.”

“No,” Elena says, flailing her hands in denial. “No, I mean Arthur told me about you.”

“Arthur?” Merlin says, trying and failing to picture the scene. “Arthur Pendragon?”

Elena nods, blond locks dancing gaily around her head. “Yes, he's my friend, well, my only real pal. You know some people don't react well girls who're mostly into horses, but Arthur does and, well, he's my best mate.”

There's such a tone of sadness wrapped in her enthusiasm about Arthur, Merlin can't help but say, “I'm glad you have such a good friend.”

“That's not the point,” Elena chides him, turning him about but deviating when they get too close to the fence Pendragon and Gawant are leaning against. “I mean it only is in so far as he's talked to me about you.”

“Ah,” is all Merlin says. When he realises that she means it, that Arthur did speak about him, his eyes burn and the back of his throat does as well. “I see,” he adds after awhile.

“Don't worry it was all good things,” Elena says, patting his arm. “Quite splendid things actually. At first I thought he was exaggerating but now that I've met you I know he wasn't.”

Not knowing what Arthur said, Merlin is quite at a loss to reply to Elena. He doesn't know what to reveal and what to keep close and to be quite honest he feels so raw and torn about Arthur, wanting him and feeling betrayed all at once, that he isn't sure there's anything he can say about him. At last he settles for: “I'm glad he didn't come up with a bad reference.”

“You think it was about the job?” Elena says, craning her head to the side and making a short humming noise that's all denial. “It went deeper than that. Arthur thinks you hung the moon and stars.”

Though his emotions untether him, unravel him at the core and confuse him, Merlin answers quickly. He doesn't address Elena's statement about Arthur praising him. He changes the subject to one which Merlin prefers even though he doesn't find it easier to be frank about. “I think that when you peel away the layers you'll find Arthur's a great bloke too.”

Elena's breath rushes out like a gale. “Really?” she squeals, towing him inside the stables proper. She fans her hands as though her skin's on fire.

“It doesn't seem that strange an opinion to have,” Merlin says. “I mean, yeah, he can act like a--”

Elena takes hold of his arm and squeezes, her grip so tight she effectively shuts him up. “No, I mean, you don't understand. He thinks he's lost your good opinion completely.”

Merlin wants to ask her what she knows, how she knows, whether Arthur's opened up to her or not. But he can't do any of that because Mr Gawant appears on the threshold, his figured rounded off by the sun shining behind him. “Elena, dear,” he says, “stop monopolising the grooms. It's a habit that's got to go.”

Then putting paid to any hope Merlin might have had to clear up his confusion about Elena's wording, Uther Pendragon appears. “Yes, indeed, Mr Emrys, leading a lady into a lonely building. It's quite suspect, not to mention improper.”

“Mr Pendragon,” Elena says, letting go of Merlin. “I was just pestering Mr Emrys with questions about the new mount.”

“Ha, yes,” Mr Gawant says, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief he seems to have got out of nowhere. “She does that everywhere we go. I mean everywhere horses are.”

Uther's mouth distends, though only moderately so. “Well, if that's the case I'm sure Mr Emrys will be available to show you a few pen tricks.”

With Elena having no way to call off her bluff, they all accept the proposition. Merlin, of course, can't question the command so there's no accepting to be done on his part, only obeying.

They all file out to the stables and go back to the pen, where Merlin mounts Black Beauty and engages in a few show tricks for Elena's pleasure.

Since Elena genuinely enjoys the show, excuse or not, there's a lot of clapping on her part. This leads Uther to order Merlin to perform a few more showy manoeuvres. There's fence jumping and prancing and riding standing in one stirrup. Trick riding is not in Merlin's job description but he's always wanted to and pleasing Elena, who shows her joy so boisterously you can't help wishing to add to it, is something he's not averse to do.

He continues to feel this way in spite of Uther's Pendragon commanding him to perform dangerous tricks regardless of job contracts.

The afternoon wanes away with Merlin entertaing Miss Gawant, so Merlin is unable to question Elena further. Whatever she meant in regard to Arthur must remain a secret only she is privy to because when the sun sets she's whisked away to tea up at the house.

Merlin is dismissed and told he can go home. “You certainly worked for your keep today,” Mr Pendragon tells a sweaty Merlin from the height of his extra inch on him, voice glacial in spite of the frosty praise it's supposedly conveying.

Merlin doesn't say no to an early evening though he tries to catch sight of Elena before he has to go change. Before Elena has fully disappeared from view and Merlin made it to the offices, she regales him with a wink.

It's a wink Merlin spends almost all evening trying to decypher.

 

****

 

The slope ahead flattens into a smooth green lawn scattered with flowers. As they near the stables the bulbous heads of buttercups and alliums crop up more and more. Griflet seems to have developed a great attraction to them. Every time he spots a bunch, he bends his head and starts sniffing, mouthing at the blades of grass around the flowers without damaging stamen or petals.

Today Griflet smells a brand new cluster of spearworths and jangles the bit against his teeth to alert Merlin to the fact he wants to stop their walk.

Since Merlin is in no hurry to be anywhere, he lets Griflet do as he pleases, wrapping the lead around his hand to make sure the foal doesn't take it into his head to go on a jaunt of his own.

Merlin's standing there, staring up at the sky, at the pillowy clouds scudding past, when a car speeds along the drive, raking up mounds of dust that make him cough.

When he's done blinking, Merlin realises that the car that just rumbled past is Arthur's Jaguar.

With that Griflet's smell-the-roses session is curtailed. Merlin doesn't feel like loitering in the open anymore. Tugging on the lead, Merlin guides a reluctant Griflet back to the stables, where Merlin ensconces himself for the rest of the afternoon, carting hay and spreading fresh rushes across the floor.

By the end of it the stalls smell so nice – like herbs – you'd hardly say you were in the stables at all. The light outside slowly dies, dimming to orange and then a velvety blue. Having been fed and watered, the horses drowse in the stalls.

Arthur doesn't come.

Merlin closes for the night and goes back home.

If he'd feared Arthur would come and confront him, Merlin can now relax. Two days pass and Arthur doesn't come visiting the stables, not even to admire his gift.

“Sorry,” Merlin says, patting Black Beauty behind the years. “Your owner will come. He will. Just maybe when I'm not here.”

The horse mouths Merlin's trouser leg, clear up to his knee, leaving a trail of slobber behind that makes Merlin laugh despite not being very merry at all.

Ears half back, Black Beauty sniffs at his food bucket. Merlin kicks it under his interested nose and reaches out to stroke the horse's neck and mane. Black Beauty keeps flicking his ears back and forth as he eats. “Well, good night then,” Merlin says to his only eager listener.

On the next day Arthur doesn't come. Neither does he nip by the day after that. It's okay. Horses pick up on strained feelings. Merlin can't say he's ready to think of Arthur without any emotion welling up in him, catching up in his throat and acting on his body's chemistry. So it's better this way, with Arthur not coming. His behaviour would upset the horses.

A few days later Merlin is standing by the paddock watching Griflet unleash his energy in a half trot, his own eyes slitted against the sun, when Gwen turns up. At first she wrings her hands; then she uses one to shield her eyes from the afternoon glare. “I made a cake,” she says, a propos nothing and a tad abruptly. “Carrot cake.”

A foot on the fence grid, his eyes still semi closed against the sun, Merlin says, “Good.”

“Yeah.”

Merlin has no idea why Gwen has come to talk to him about cakes. He's sure she can bake and that the other servants are happy about this variation on their menu, but Merlin doesn't see how this concerns him. Because Uther has a set staff hierarchy that deems stable-boys lower than house personnel, Merlin always takes his meals in the stables. He supposes he can share in her glee. “Happy for you. I'm sure it's delicious and that you'll make many a person happy.”

“Oh no,” Gwen says, biting her nails. “I meant to invite you.”

“Up at the house?” Merlin asks, not completely sure that's a good idea. “You know Mr Pendragon is against us grooms polluting the air up at the manor.”

“Mr Pendragon's not in,” says Gwen hurriedly. “Not that I meant to sneak you in against the rules but...” Gwen scrunches up her nose. “What he doesn't know can't hurt, right?”

Merlin hums thoughtfully. “I don't know, Gwen.”

Gwen bites her lip with more and more vigour. “Um, have I told you that this is my best yet?”

“Did you have a taste?” Merlin asks, to tease her mostly.

“No, I-- um,” Gwen's eyebrow arches upwards. “I wouldn't-- You're pulling my leg, aren't you?”

“Yes, but you've changed my mind,” Merlin says, clacking his tongue to call Griflet to him. “I'm coming.”

“Oh, thank god,” Gwen says, with a smile and a sigh.

Griflet comes trotting to him and pushes his head against Merlin's neck. “Hi, you,” Merlin says, caressing the horse up the side of his neck till his fingers mesh into his mane. “Time to go back to the stables.”

As if he has understood the actual words, Griflet drops his nose so Merlin can gently slip the bridle over his head. With the line in his hand Merlin opens the paddock gate and leads Griflet back to his stall, Gwen telling him she'll wait for him up at the house.

So as not to tempt fortune too much, Merlin uses the servants entrance and makes it to the kitchens by way of a warren of corridors that have since time immemorial been used for the benefit of staff and delivery people. That he finds his way is mostly thanks to a bashful maid who drops her eyes when she sights him. She still answers politely though.

In the kitchen Merlin doesn't find the assembly of staffers he'd expected to encounter given Gwen's promise of food. Staffers are free loaders, but they seem to have abstained from their tendencies today. Slicing up a perfectly fragrant round of carrot cake, Gwen is alone in the kitchen.

“Hi,” Merlin says, leaning against the door as he tries not to leap towards the counter in his haste to gorge on the aromas wafting from Gwen's concoction. “I made it.”

“I didn't doubt you would,” says Gwen with a smile, cutting another slice.

“Yes, well, the temptation was great.”

“Why don't you sit?” says Gwen, putting a curly leaf of some herb or other on the plate by way of decoration.

Mouth watering at the lovely smell that pervades the air, Merlin pulls a chair back and sinks into it. The inviting fragrance is two parts sugary batter smell to one part spice and Merlin loves it.

Gwen turns around and pushes the plate across the table so Merlin can reach for it, a tiny dessert fork propped against its rim. “Thank you, Gwen, this looks delicious,” he says as he waits for her to join him.

But Gwen doesn't, rather spinning round to open an old fashioned metal-lined tea box that's filled with multi coloured bags. On top of each tiny bag receptacle, words are scribbled in silvery filigree: Assam, Darjeeling, Earl Grey. Merlin guesses she wants to make tea before she comes sit with him.

He's curbing his instinct to pounce on Gwen's concoction – Gwen dithering over her choice of tea in the background – when the sound of assured, short steps startles him.

Merlin almost convinces himself that footfall belongs to Uther Pendragon, come back to hound him out of his kitchen, but when he actually cranes his neck a little to see who's come snooping, it's to find Arthur there.

Arthur leans against the door, eyes wide and soft, smile gentle and tentative as he tells Gwen, “I heard you made cake; I came down expressly for it.”

“Oh, yes,” Gwen says placing the second plate on the table for Arthur, “of course. You can have as many slices as you like.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, hesitating to take a place at the table.

Merlin beats his fork against the fine golden rim of his plate. “Mmm, perhaps I should go look in on Griflet.”

“Who's Griflet?”

“The new colt,” says Gwen quickly, words taking flight off the tip of her tongue.

Merlin doesn't lift his eyes, not even when Arthur says, “Please, don't let me chase you out. I can eat this in my room.”

Merlin's whole mouth has gone so dry with the heat of knowing he has Arthur's eyes on him. His upper lip seems to fold under, seemingly cracking, but he manages to say, “No, please, this is your home.”

Arthur takes a chair. “If that's all right with you.”

Silence crackles in the air between them as Gwen cuts herself a thin slice. The chair scrapes against the tiles as she scoots it back. To give his hands something to do, Merlin sinks his fork into the cake's spongy layers, a little cloud of oven vapours puffing up to prickle his nose.

Gwen drums her fingers on her plate; stands up again to pour them tea. She forgets to ask which type they'll prefer, but asks Arthur, “So enjoying the holiday before real life begins?”

“Something like that,” Arthur says, accepting a cup from her.

“When are you due in London?”

Out of the corners of his eyes Merlin spies Arthur making a face. “I'm not planning to go right now. I'm... discussing things with my father. That's the stage I'm at.”

“I see,” says Gwen, not cutting into her dessert slice. “I'm sure everything will sort itself out.”

“Fact is,” Arthur says, his voice like an echo, a far away dreamy quality to his tone, like words in a storm. “I've changed.”

Even though the other two aren't eating, Merlin ploughs into his cake, munching heavily in a way that doesn't allow him to sift taste.

Gwen cradles her cheek, elbow on the table. “Since choosing Business?”

“No,” Arthur says.

It looks as if he might say more when a fourth person appears on the threshold. Merlin recognises her as Sefa, one of the upstairs maids. “Gwen,” she says, cleaning rather spotless hands on her apron. “I made a mess upstairs. Would you mind coming up and giving me a hand?”

Gwen looks up, chin in the air. “With the silver polish, right?”

“Yes.” Sefa agrees. “It's all over the... carpet. I really need you.”

Gwen stands up. “If that's the case...” She cocks her head at Arthur and Merlin. “You two eat away in peace. Just put the dishes in the sink when you're done. I'll give them a wash.”

Before Merlin can tell her that she needn't worry about his encroaching into her realm, that he's going back to the stables, she's gone, disappeared after Sefa.

Merlin puts the fork down. Left alone with Arthur he doesn't quite know what to do, how to act. Behave as if they're strangers, as though they haven't slept together, as though Merlin doesn't remember the shape of his body? Merlin doesn't think he's up to that. His lungs fill to bursting point at the thought. Maybe he should just be polite, without mimicking an aloofness he doesn't feel, can never feel.

Arthur takes it out of his hands. “I hear the new horse is fantastic.”

“Black Beauty?” Merlin blurts out before he can stop and remember that nobody has actually 'christened' the horse yet.

“You call him that?” Arthur guesses, as if he has some knowledge of Merlin that's allowed him a fair stab at the truth, which he probably has.

“Yeah,” Merlin says, looking at the tracery of lines and knots that form the surface of the wooden table counter-top. “Had to call him something.”

“I realise that there was a need,” Arthur says. “I was remiss by the way, in not coming. I wanted to.”

“I'm sure you were busy,” Merlin says, flicking his first proper glance at Arthur. “With...” He has no idea what Arthur could have been busy with since he'd finished his thesis, so he trails off.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, scratching at the side of his face. “In a way.”

“Mmm.” Merlin almost feels like gouging his intestines out with his fork if this is the kind of small talk he has to make. He just can't, not with Arthur. He gave Arthur too big a chunk of his heart, one he feels the absence of every day, to be able to do that. “Look he says,” just as Arthur starts talking over him.

“Elena told me that you rode him, Black Beauty.”

Merlin's mouth flaps open though he remembers the event perfectly well. It's not surprise that shapes his expression. It's more that he hadn't expected Elena to have told Arthur. “Yeah, I did. A bit of a show was required by the higher ups.”

“I'm sorry if my father treated you like--”

“Staff?” Merlin anticipates Arthur. “He could have been kinder, but that's what I am.”

“I was about to say an indentured servant,” Arthur finishes for him. “Elena told me how he behaved too. I'm sorry. On his behalf. He had no call.”

“It's okay.”

Arthur turns in his chair, makes a move as if to reach for his arm, maybe. Or his hand. It doesn't happen because Arthur stops himself. “You know it's not and I--”

“Arthur, you don't have to apologise for him,” Merlin says, gently, more gently than he probably should allow himself given the fragile state of his emotions. “It's not your place to.”

“He will never do it though,” Arthur says with a grimace that pulls tight at his lips.

Merlin wants to smooth down the concern creases that mar Arthur's beautiful face with the pads of his fingers. Naturally he doesn't do that, but the temptation lodges in his muscle memory. “That's okay. I'm used to that kind of stuff. Your father's actually not the worst I've met.”

Arthur releases a gasp. “I never asked, why you--”

“Perhaps you did right not to?” Merlin says, a tremulous alto rounding off his words. “Being treated like shit, it's not memories you want to have... or... sort of perpetuate.”

“No of course not.”

They again fall into a deep silence, the clock ticking away calmly and regularly, going much, much slower than Merlin's heart.

Arthur bites into his cake. It must be cold now, but he pushes the tines of his fork into the spongy depths of the pastry, releasing a nutmeg scent that makes Merlin's senses reel. He's eaten half of it with scrupulous rigour, scarcely dropping a crumb, by the time Merlin says, “You should see Black Beauty.”

The clink of the fork being put down forces Merlin's eyes to focus back on Arthur. “Can I come visit, the stables I mean?” Arthur asks.

Merlin wants to say, they're yours, but knows that phrase to be wrong at gut level. “Sure,” he says. “Come by any time.”

“I don't want to put you out,” Arthur says, eyes widening, as if he too has rethought his words. “But I'll come. Visit the horse. I'll come.”

Merlin doesn't stay long after that. He doesn't finish his dessert portion either, though he's sure it tastes good. He'd probably have been better able to assess its tastiness levels and Gwen's proficiency as a pastry chef if his mind had actually been on it. As it is, nothing lingers; nothing stays. Food goes down leaving no impression of its flavours and moments pass by without him dwelling in them; all that stays is the knowledge of Arthur being there.

“I'll do the washing up, no worries,” Arthur tells him as Merlin's eyes go to the plates.

“I-- what no. I messed the kitchen up too.”

“I'll do the washing up,” Arthur offers again, leaning close to take his dirty dish. “Go back home. You look tired, Merlin.”

So Merlin does, thinking of Arthur in the lowering light of day, washing dishes in the kitchen, awash in the scent of soap, the profile of him working attentively at his task easily conjured. It's an image that persists on Merlin's retinas even after he's gone to bed, eyes closed against the darkness and emptiness of his room. 

 

****

 

When he sees him the next morning Griflet playfully tosses his head and whinnies out a spirited salute.

Though Merlin feels like one of the dead as a result of having slept badly and then having the oddest dreams, he approaches Griflet's stall. “Hi,” he says, as Griflet nudges his neck. “Good morning.”

Griflet neighs, pawing the ground.

“You want to be let out, don't you?” Merlin says, extracting a bag of cereals from the back pocket of his jeans. “I understand that, but I have to give the others their brekkie first.” He holds up the bag and Griflet gobbles a handful of oats from it.

“So that's how you get their undying affection,” a voice that can belong to none but Arthur drawls. “By bribing them with treats.”

Merlin slowly turns, squinting against the light flooding in from the outside and contouring Arthur's form. “How should I win their affections then?” Merlin asks, going for playful, but sounding lost and small, his voice thinning at the end.

“By way of your winning smiles.”

Since Arthur mentioned it he should probably smile. He should definitely do it because the air's taut like a bow string and that would probably make the tension go away. But he doesn't. He ducks his head. “I don't think horses are suckered in by smiles at all.”

“Pity that,” Arthur says, slipping his hands in his pockets and ambling up towards him. “I, um, came to see Black Beauty.”

“You know you can choose a new name for him?” Merlin says, opening Griflet's stall to leave him with the oats bag before closing it again.

“No,” Arthur says, following him around as Merlin starts filling the horse's buckets with their breakfasts. “A horse's name is more about their personality than the necessity of giving them a designation. You're the one who knows him. I would never undo your job.”

Merlin chuckles this time. “My thought processes naming him were a lot simpler, you know.”

“I'd still love to keep the name you chose for him,” says Arthur, helping him placing the buckets by each stall.

As though no time has passed since the days Arthur pretended to be a groom, they fall into a rhythm, getting all the horses seen to in a matter of minutes. They don't talk but it doesn't seem necessary either and though Merlin's aware of Arthur at a molecular level, his skin prickling with awareness, the tension he felt when he first turned up evaporates. He loses his thoughts in the tempo of his work with Arthur and he feels fine, the lightest he's been in a while.

It lasts until Arthur breaks their silence, saying, “Would you mind saddling Black Beauty for me?”

Wiping his hands on his jeans, Merlin says, “Sure. I'll do it right away.”

“And coming out for a ride with me?”

Something pulls low in Merlin's stomach, like a string tightening. “Arthur--” Merlin says, a thousand thoughts swirling fast in his brain, going from nervous excitation, like bubbles fizzing in his veins, to a hollowing fear of disappointment and rejection. “I don't know.”

“Help me at least get a handle on him,” Arthur says. “I'd feel much more confident having you there.”

Merlin wants Arthur to have the best experience of riding out with Beauty for the first time ever, so he tamps down on his feelings. “Okay, all right, let me saddle Badgemagus and I'll come with.”

They choose an unusual path to go riding. The Pendragon property borders with a patch of land that's mostly clear of vegetation. It rises, though not sharply, veering east, and from the top you can see down-hill to a small meandering brook. The area usually floods in springs but when it doesn't it blooms nearly fantastically green.

It's that way now, warm sunlight brightening colours that are already sharp, ripe.

Ripe as Merlin's feelings, which are bursting from him in a fugue. He feels soft around the edges, dripping emotion he holds on to – or perhaps in – tighter than he does the reins.

Whenever they get to a rise, Merlin slows Badgemagus down on purpose so he can watch Arthur without him knowing he's doing so. The more he looks, the more he feels warmth work away at his insides, diluting his thoughts till he's adrift in a sea of pure instinctive longing.

Only when Arthur notices his slowness, does Merlin stop deliberately falling behind. His dallying noted, he knees Badgemagus forward, while still floating on a cloud, where perception is filtered by his heart.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, sounding as though it's not the first time he tries to get his attention.

“Yeah?” Merlin starts, coming to ride side by side with Arthur. “Did you say something? I didn't hear you over the brook.”

Arthur looks dubiously at him, his eyebrow a question mark. He quickly veils his reaction, but Merlin still thinks Arthur knows he was fantasising, although he hopes Arthur hasn't worked out what about. “I just said,” Arthur says, clearly not for the first time, “that I wanted to ask you a question.”

It's Merlin's turn to looks speculative. “Go ahead, fire.”

Arthur tugs on the reins so that Black Beauty segues from trot to a walk. “Do you think I can handle horses?” Arthur asks, all big eyes and earnest voice.

Merlin brings Badgemagus to fall into step with Black Beauty. “Are you joking? You're the best rider I know.”

Arthur's hands tighten on the reins. “I didn't mean it that way,” Arthur says, quieting Black Beauty with a few pats when his instinctive tensing unnerves the horse.

“Then what did you mean?” Merlin asks, failing to get what Arthur wants from him.

“Let's dismount,” says Arthur, before hopping off the saddle and walking Beauty down river.

Wondering at the turn of events, Merlin follows him. There's nowhere to tie the horses here but that doesn't seem to be too much of a problem. The two mounts are docile and trained, at least as far as not running away goes. When Arthur and Merlin let them loose, they merely take to the stream to drink and later graze at the ends of those low grass blades that grow amid the scrub at the brook's edge.

As for him and Arthur, they sit on a large boulder that forms a rising ledge over the water, blue sky tenting above them, opening up the countryside.

The pure air spreads thin in Merlin's lungs, Arthur's proximity starving Merlin of air.

It's Arthur that starts their discussion again, reprising their former subject. “I wanted to know,” he says, his gaze concentrating on Merlin as if he can tell what Merlin really thinks by studying him with the utmost attention, “whether you think I can handle horses, as in a stableful.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” Merlin says, wondering whether Arthur is missing playing at being a groom now that he's bound for his London job. “What do you mean, a 'stableful'?”

“There's a stable, not a private one,” says Arthur, slow, testing his words off his tongue, picking them carefully. “And they're selling.”

“You want to buy a stable?” Merlin asks, thinking Arthur's hankering for more fine mounts after he's had a taste of riding Black Beauty. “Isn't that going to cost you a mint?”

“I want to run a stable,” Arthur says, intent on Merlin, on his mouth, on what's going to come out of it next most probably. “And, yeah, it's going to cost a mint, as you put it, but that's what I want to do.”

“Wait, wait,” says Merlin, holding his hand up, forgetting for a moment how caught up he is in Arthur's presence and his gushing heart to really heed Arthur's words. “You mean to say you want to make it your day job?”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, smiling tentatively, his happy moue threatening to disappear any second if Merlin disapproves of his objective. “I wasn't joking the other day when I said I'd changed. I talked to Elena--”

Oh that explains it, Merlin thinks, making an appreciative noise that doesn't contribute to the conversation much.

“And she said to go for it,” Arthur says, self consciously running both hands through his hair. “And of course she would because that's her day-dream come true and because she thinks better of me than I deserve--”

Merlin fetches an elaborate sigh. “Arthur, has it occurred to you that if she does it's because she values you?”

Arthur's knit brow tells Merlin that, no, it never has, that Arthur thinks Elena's good opinion is wasted on him. “Trust her judgement,” he says, wanting to touch Arthur – a hand on his shoulder, maybe – but shying away from it. “She knows you. She knows what kind of man you are.”

“Never mind that, she's my friend and of course she's biased in my favour,” Arthur says, “I wanted your opinion.”

Merlin looks away, taking in the rippling of the brook's water with the foam tipping at the edge of each wavelet instead of Arthur's face. He laughs, though with little merriment. “Does it mean you think I'm no friend to you?”

A muscle in Arthur's cheek contracts and his chin juts out, pushing his lips together. “I think I didn't do anything likely to make you like me.”

Merlin dips his head, palming his forehead. He runs middle and index fingers up the length of the bone. “Arthur--”

“No, I know,” Arthur says, his palm skimming Merlin's knee before ghosting away again. “You probably don't want to talk about--” His cheeks fill as he pushes a breath out with the word 'us'. “And I won't pressure you that way. Whatever you think I can, I hope, still act like a gentleman.”

A soft tingle of laughter bypasses Merlin's lips, without him intending to release that particular sound at all. “You sound so old fashioned,” he says, because he can't voice the rest, the softer core of feelings that's enbroiled with the thought of Arthur.

Arthur takes Merlin's derailment for what it is and ignores it. “And I hope I can still be allowed your opinion.”

“About buying a business?” Merlin asks, his voice expressing all the doubts he has as to his competence on the subject. “I'm not really the right person to talk to.”

“About horses,” Arthur says, searching his eyes, a tentative smile coaxing Merlin's answer out, just like the sunlight trailing over the water and on to Arthur seeks out his best features. “I'm asking you, the person I think best suited to discussing stable running, what you think of my ability to look after horses, rear them. I'm asking you, do you think I have the touch?”

Merlin's emotions swirl around him like a storm; instinctively he wants to reassure Arthur, wipe away all traces of tentativeness from his smile and voice and make sure that Arthur knows his worth. Their past aside, Merlin doesn't doubt Arthur's ability to give love – whether it's with his body or by way of caring – and that's all horses need. “You're really brilliant with horses, Arthur,” he chokes out. “The best.”

“Do you really think that?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, wearing the knees of jeans thin with the palms of his hands. “I have no horse in this race, right?”

“What a bad pun, Merlin,” Arthur says, his amused voice startling warmth from Merlin's chest.

“What I meant was I should be impartial about this, shouldn't I?”

“I don't think you have any reason to give me pats on the back, no,” Arthur says, a blush rising on his face.

“Then hear me out,” Merlin says with all the conviction he can muster, which is quite a lot when it comes to this subject. “You have the gift. You have it in plenty. You're naturally brilliant with horses, they just flock to you.”

“That'd be you,” Arthur tells him, nudging his knee with the tip of his boot. “They only obey me.”

“They love to,” Merlin corrects him. “And you have the business know how, too. I say you're in a prime position to take the plunge.”

Arthur rolls his shoulders, throws them out. “You truly think that?”

“Yeah,” Merlin breathes out, a smile that goes from ear to ear splitting his face in two. “I really think that.”

Arthur exhales hard, forks his hand through his hair from nape to pate. “Wow, that's... that a lot more than I was expecting.”

“And that's your problem, Arthur,” Merlin says, thinking he can offer this piece of advice at least. “You have every reason to believe in yourself, so just do it. Don't be a prat and second guess yourself, okay?”

“Okay.” Arthur grins, eyes brimming with that grin.

“Good.”

“So, seeing as you're practically urging me to gamble with my future,” Arthur says as Merlin rolls his eyes at the exaggeration, “you won't take it amiss if I fuck around with lady fortune a bit more and ask you to please come with me, check the stables out before I do seal the deal?”

“Arthur, I have a job here,” Merlin reminds him, though he'd theoretically love to go and get a glimpse of what Arthur will be doing of his future, if only from afar.

“I'll ask Pellinore, that's the seller, to make it a Sunday,” he says as if he's not incommoding a business contact to fit in Merlin's schedule. “Please, if there's anyone who's got solid experience of how a stable should be run that's you.”

Thinking Arthur better served by getting a business savvy person to accompany him, Merlin says, “Shouldn't you ask your father?”

Arthur's face tightens all over. “No, no I shouldn't be doing that.”

“Sorry,” Merlin apologises, not knowing what for, just feeling he's misstepped.

“Besides my father only buys horses,” Arthur says, focusing his gaze on the fist he's clenching. “He's only good at throwing money at things, not loving them.”

Merlin nods; it's not as if he hasn't noticed Mr Pendragon's less than nurturing side. “Okay then, why not take Elena? At least she loves horses and was born into money--”

“And you think that makes you automatically knowledgeable about business?” Arthur asks, with a sceptical burr.

Merlin has no knowledge of this. He can't tell whether having being born rich would make you an expert sniffing out deals or just hinder you, make you more naive than all those upwardly mobile go getters. “Okay, all right. I'll be coming, but my opinion probably won't be worth much.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Arthur says, reaching his hand out for Merlin to shake.

Merlin takes it, experiencing the urge to run his fingers over the back of Arthur's hand, a thrill going through him for as long as the touch lasts.

When it's over, Arthur rises to his feet, calling an end to their tête a tête.

Merlin goes to retrieve the horses, finding them busy nuzzling grass and swishing their tails.

Merlin's just gathered Black Beauty's reins, when Arthur bounds over, stopping mid track to bend over. He breaks the stem of a flower, pauses to smell it, then continues on his way to Merlin.

Bluebell in hand, Arthur comes to stand right opposite him, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards. Deftly, he slips the flower into the pocket of Merlin's shirt, patting it briefly, before grabbing Beauty's reins from Merlin's rather lax hand.

As the brook bubbles with excitement and Merlin's blood froths to the same rhythm, Arthur climbs into the saddle, reining his horse around in preparation for their jaunt back.

 

****

 

Merlin's doing up the buttons of his shirt when the phone rings. He picks up the handset and cradles it between chin and shoulder. “Yup,” he says into it.

“Is that the way you answer your phone?” Arthur's voice floats over, poking at Merlin's sober mood and bringing a smile to his face. “Just yup?”

“I'm getting dressed.”

“The contrary would have been kinkier,” Arthur says, before the crackle of static replaces his smooth drawl.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, wondering if the line died or Arthur hung up on him.

But Arthur says, “I'm downstairs.”

“Oh, okay,” Merlin says, staring at his bare feet. “Give me a sec to put my shoes on. Be down in a minute.”

Merlin finds Arthur in front of his building, pacing and rubbing his hands together in a brisk, uneasy fashion. Before he notices Merlin, he manages a sharp turnaround that segues into some more toeing and froing.

“Nervous?” Merlin greets him, smiling a little.

Arthur stops trying to work a furrow on the pavement and whips round, his face tense, his half-smile stretching his mouth into an indecisive, wavering line. “No, not at all.”

“Bollocks,” says Merlin, cocking his head in a study of Arthur's face. “You look like someone killed your cat.”

“It's just that,” Arthur says, his mouth so tight it's barely moving, “I phoned Mr Pellinore today and he says he's showing Lake Stables to another potential buyer too.”

“Isn't that normal?” Merlin asks, as they walk over to Arthur's car, looking as flashy as ever in Merlin's dodgy neighbourhood. “I mean if there's selling there must be people interested in buying.”

“Yes, but,” says Arthur, kicking at a tiny loose cobblestone he finds on his path, “knowing your rivals are there is one thing, meeting them in the flesh is another.”

“They still would have been there, even if you didn't know what they looked like and who they were,” Merlin says, trying to summon all the wisdom he has. “So that changes nothing.”

Arthur harrumphs, his mouth twisting sideways.

“Or make an offer they can't refuse,” Merlin says, repeating an old joke of Arthur's, one they shared in bed.

Arthur looks up from opening the car, his palm flat on the roof of his Jaguar. “Really, Merlin? Godfather jokes?”

Merlin laughs. “Thought I had to inject some humour into this.”

Lake Stables, Merlin finds, are called so because the entire property is flanked by a little artificial lake, mists hanging over it even while the sun plays on its surface, projecting the shapes of the foliage hanging above it and growing up either side of the drive Merlin and Arthur coast along.

“I'll be fucked,” Merlin says, failing to stop gaping, “this place is beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, leaning over the steering wheel. “I had a peek at the photos they have up on their website but seen live this place is quite something else.”

Arthur stops the car before a modern stable building coming with a concreted yard area in front, laminated flat roof and pasture-land at the sides, and probably sprawling at the back as well. A twin building rises some way away from it, likely housing even more purebreds.

Before leaving the car, Merlin murmurs, “It'll cost you a pretty penny.”

“For now let's just hope Pellinore decides to sell his property to me,” Arthur says, eyeing the two men emerging from the first building they spotted.

Mr Pellinore – Arthur points him out to Merlin– is a tall man with dark, close cropped hair. He's deep in conversation with a second man, equally tall, sporting a goatee and a flowing mane.

When Arthur and Merlin approach them, they both turn around. “Ha, Mr Pendragon,” Pellinore says, “right on time. I was about to show Mr King around.”

Arthur shakes Mr Pellinore's hand, then turns a little, waiting to be introduced to his rival. “This is Cenred King; he owns Essetia stables.”

“And would like to expand,” says King, throwing back his shoulders, his eyes glinting with smug assurance, assessing Arthur as if he is a threat even while he shakes hands with him. “A pleasure.”

Arthur quickly introduces Merlin too. “This is my friend,” he says, splaying a hand on Merlin's chest in passing, “Merlin Emrys. He works for my father at Pendragon Manor and is a horse expert.”

Merlin thinks that Arthur is exaggerating both his role at the manor and his expertise, but doesn't say anything so as not to make Arthur look like a liar. Instead, he follows the other two men into the building opposite.

As the proprietor, Mr Pellinore takes on the role of tour guide. He shows them around, answering his two potential buyers' questions with good grace and a clear love for the place he built.

From the inside the stables are as modern and high tech as they looked from the outside. Thanks to openings located along the side walls they make use of natural ventilation. They also offer functional gutters and a hay store.

There's twenty twelve-by-twelve feet loose-boxes inhabited by as many horses; oak posts firmly fixed to ceiling joists run into a concrete base. From this, ramps and sloping rails are carried. They go from post to wall. Sills run along the floor and both this and the ramp are grooved. Wood boardings, which are secured together by means of metal clasps, stand between the boards. Each box also has sheetings nailed on each side and feather edge cladding.

Merlin couldn't imagine a better facility to house horses in than this one. The space is organised more rationally than at Pendragon Manor and everything seems to have been built with the animals' comfort in mind.

“We renovated two years ago,” Mr Pellinore says, petting the head of one of his thoroughbreds as he passes. “Everything is up to scratch.”

“I can see that,” says Arthur, his eyes shining with a love for the place Merlin would be able to detect from miles off. “It's in every detail.”

“They say the devil is,” Mr Pellinore jokes, leading them onwards towards the larger corner box.

“I was wondering whether you thought to include a wash down area when you started your renovations,” King says, sounding not impressed at all with the lay out and resources the place can offer.

“There always was one,” Mr Pellinore says, his brow furrowing, his mouth puckering. “We expanded it when we did up the building.”

Mr Pellinore shows them the wash down area next. Merlin feels that he wouldn't have if King hadn't asked that question or doubted its presence. But now that his attention for detail has been called into question the man seems pretty determined to highlight all the good features of his establishment.

“As you can see,” Pellinore says, holding his arm upwards to point, “we made an effort to separate the dirty water that comes from washing from clean storm-water.”

Merlin studies the wash bay's design. A concrete drainage apron directs water from the wash down area to a drainage pit located outside, whose hollowed out length Merlin can spot from inside the stables proper. A hose is coiled around a metal mount. A hardened surface created for the horses to stand on while washed gives onto a Kikuyu lawn.

Pellinore notices Merlin taking this in and says, “We positioned the bay so as to get shade on hot afternoons and shelter when the weather's bad.”

“I can see lots of thought's gone into this,” says Merlin, taking a few steps to better observe the lawn and drainage system. “At Pendragon's we just wash the horses outside, which is not optimal in winter.”

“I do agree that it's not the best that can be had,” Pellinore says thoughtfully. “That's the way it was done in the old days. But we live in a high tech world, so why not use some of the potential that modern engineering offers to pamper our animals?”

“I'm sure I have a few that would love these improvements,” says Merlin, thinking of how spoilt Hengroen is or how much Griflet loves his blanket.

“Some of mine are like that too. They'd rather be all cosy and snug inside.” Mr Pellinore moves close to Merlin to show him more of the wash bay's features. “As you can see over there a berm has been built to prevent water leaving the wash bay and entering clean water drains.”

“Oh that's nifty,” Merlin says, bending to snoop a bit.

“And,” Mr Pellinore says, tapping the water taps, “these have been placed just so that leads and head collars do not get caught in them.”

“I think that's wise, yes,” says Merlin, drumming his fingers on his chin as he listens on. Hengroen always gets tangled in his lead, so Merlin can most definitely see the use of Mr Pellinore's new placement system.

Mr Pellinore tilts his chin upwards. “We also have a special overhead hose system we get to use when there's more than one horse in the bay.”

Merlin can see the use of that too. “Well, long hose do get kinked and I've found horses just love stepping on them.”

“Oh, that they do,” says Mr Pellinore chuckling fondly.

It's only when King grunts that Merlin notices he's basically monopolised Pellinore. He doesn't think he's done a bad thing. His chat with Mr Pellinore has highlighted some of Lake' Stables best features. He can't think any buyer would be unhappy hearing about those. Arthur is certainly looking at him all pleased, his eyes firmly on Merlin. Merlin amost expects him to make a thumbs up sign, which, naturally, he doesn't do.

But Mr King is now stomping around. Seemingly, he's lost all interest in the wash down area, a subject he brought up himself, and is now ambling around the south end of the building.

Ignoring Pellinore, who's still going on, talking about nozzles that can prevent water waste, King says, “The building's fine, I suppose. I'd like to see the horses now. On the ground.”

“I can organise that,” Pellinore says, calling to one of his grooms loitering outside. “Mark over there will ride Paulus.”

“No,” says King, stalking towards the exit, his hands in his pockets. “I want to test the mount myself.”

Arthur and Merlin exchange a glance, Merlin's mouth twisting downwards.

Arthur, Merlin and Pellinore wait around as King himself takes out Paulus. King is an excellent rider, Merlin can't say anything against his form. That becomes evident as he nudges his mount from walk to trot to gallop with the sole aid of his knees. But he's stressing the horse out too; he's unrelenting once he's sent Paulus into a gallop, making him jump a fence, and testing his overall mettle.

It's a bit much, Merlin thinks, but doesn't say.

“All my horses are perfectly trained,” Pellinore says, his hands tightening around the paddock's rail. “I'm sure Mr King will see that.”

“Paulus looks very healthy to me,” says Arthur, eyes on the horse. “You and your team have certainly done a very good job with him.”

“It's been my life's aim to run a well oiled stable and to have healthy horses,” Pellinore says, his voice getting a dreamy quality to it. “The renovations we did were possible thanks to the prize money our animals won in various dressage competitions.”

“I can certainly see how much love and care you've put into this place.”

“Yes, well,” says Pellinore, “the time has come for me to part with all of this. My family does need looking after, something I've not done very well in the past.”

“I see,” Arthur says, choosing not to comment on Mr Pellinore's personal life.

“My concern now is selling to the right person.” Pellinore's chest fills and expands outwards, as if he's come so some sort of decision. “Someone who can continue my legacy, respect the animals, love this place as much as I've loved it.”

Arthur's opening his mouth to speak when King comes trotting past, yanking on the reins viciously enough to get Paulus to stumble and whinny. “The buildings can still see some work,” he says from the top of the saddle. “But the mounts are properly trained. I'll double the sum we talked about.”

Merlin can see a shadow fall over Arthur's face and observe how his jaw tightens, sharpening his face. Even his eyes dull.

“Yes,” Mr Pellinore says, vaguely, not committing to accepting the offer. “I'll obviously keep you both posted on that.”

The afternoon ends with a visit to Mr Pellinore's house, which is situated three miles north of the stable grounds and on a separate property. They're ushered into a drawing room that affords a view of a very well tended back garden. It's alive with shrubs and plants of all types, flowers reaching tall and proud for sunlight, an explosion of greenery that frames the windows.

A long table stretches from one side to the other of the room. It's laden with all kinds of delicacies. They're offered black tea and golden crumpets, scones with honey larded on top and jam tartlets of every colour, going from the purple of blueberries to the rusty shades of tangerine.

Pellinore's family is present, too: wife, kids, an elderly aunt. Arthur and King discuss business though they do so in a way that is designed not to bore the more general audience.

Merlin is sure that Pellinore's youngest, a little girl of three whose curls bounce off her shoulders, isn't interested in monetary offers and plans for renovations. Her attempts at splattering as much jam as she possibly can down her bib and at climbing Merlin's leg as though it were a tree indicate that she's quite indifferent to all that business talk.

But on Arthur and King's part the conversation goes on, Arthur tactfully suggesting that he'll make a generous though reasonable offer, King hinting, much less subtly, that he'll top whatever proposition Arthur comes up with.

“Anyone want more biscuits?” Mrs Pellinore says, lifting the edge of a silver tray so they can all admire the rows of evenly spaced chocolate rounds she's strewn on it. “They're home made.”

Before Merlin can eat too many, King stands, taking a call. When he's done with it, it's to say, “I'm afraid I'll have to cut this meeting short. I have business elsewhere.”

Merlin hasn't yet managed to say goodbye, when King sets off, barely waving a hand at Mr Pellinore in parting. Nobody comments, but Mrs Pellinore levels a look at her husband that's a denunciation of her dissatisfaction with their guest.

Not wanting to be there for the argument that's going to ensue, Arthur and Merlin leave soon after too, shaking hands with all the family.

When they're back in Arthur's car, Arthur asks, “Mind if I don't drive you home right now? I was thinking we could take a walk in Hereford?”

“Jittery, eh?” Merlin says, understanding what Arthur's not saying.

Arthur barks a dismissive laugh, but he's still waiting for Merlin's answer, still beating a rhythm on the steering wheel as if he can't wait to set another outing in motion.

“Yeah, okay,” Merlin says at last, waiting for a smile to break on Arthur's lips, wanting to coax one forward. “I could do with a walk.”

They end up bumming around Cathedral Close, tramping across low cut grass, and walking under the shade of the occasional tree, the Gothic tracery of the Cathedral's arches the background to their meandering.

“So what do you think?” Arthur says, pushing with his foot at a carpet of dead leaves. “Did I make a good impression?”

“I think you made an excellent one,” Merlin says, matching his pace to Arthur's, gravitating so close their shoulders brush. “And I think you sensed that.”

“Mr Pellinore doesn't hate me,” Arthur says, slipping his fists in his jacket's pockets and bringing its folds together. “But that doesn't mean he'll sell to me. You heard King.”

“We still don't know if he has the money to back that offer up,” Merlin reminds Arthur. It's not as if he's got this great business experience to fall back on but he knows that people often claim to be willing or solvent enough to buy when they're not. His eBay track record is quite telling when it comes to this. “And you can make a better offer.”

Arthur heads towards the river, his lower and upper jaw sticking together as he walks. “Not really. I'm stretching myself thin as it is.”

Merlin squints; his thoughts whirring in his brain. “Can't you ask your father for more?”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, as if Arthur had just spoken his name after a long run. “I'm doing this on my own. The four million I'm offering, it was my mother's. I have nothing else to my name but that.”

The implications of that statement leave Merlin reeling so hard he can't quite conjure what to say. When his mind stops blanking, he can't say anything either because Arthur's mobile rings and he's got to take the call.

With a finger to his other ear to filter out street noises, Arthur says, “Yes.”

Merlin holds back, letting Arthur go walkabout as he talks. The only words he does make out are, “I see,” and “All right then, I'll hear from you soon.” They don't tell him much as to the nature of Arthur's conversation. His body language is a little bit more telling – Arthur keeps walking around, unstoppable, his shoulders curving inwards – but that isn't enough to guess what's going on. Good news, bad news, Merlin's not sure.

When the conversation's over, Arthur slips his mobile back into his pocket and takes great strides towards Merlin.

Merlin would be lying if he said his heart hadn't taken to pulsing in his throat. He wants things to go smoothly for Arthur. He wants Arthur to get what he wants, so much so he feels Arthur's nervousness in the same way as if it was his, as if it was his life on the line.

As he comes up to Merlin, Arthur's expression doesn't change. The lines on his face are smooth, but his expression is so neutral as to be devoid of any hints as to his mood.

It's only when Arthur’s an inch away from Merlin that the corners of his lips lift. His eyes twinkle, the blue of the iris shining as pure as a clear sky bathed by a glorious dawn.

Unable not to participate in Arthur's happiness, Merlin grins back at him.

And then Arthur takes his face in his hands, and joins their mouths together, his lower lip slipping between the both of Merlin's, skin catching on skin, the pressure firm, repeated, coming and going in little caresses.

It's like a punch. Like a good punch. A surprise that makes Merlin's heart bloom like a flower that's found the sun. The breath steals out of Merlin and into Arthur, Arthur's lips curving against the angles of Merlin's mouth.

Caught in a cocoon of sensation, his lungs tight as if cords had been tied around it, Merlin feels light-headed and incapable of thought.

Even when Arthur draws back and says, “I've got it; he's selling to me,” Merlin's not sure what's happened.

 

****

 

His heart in his throat, Merlin takes several breathes to supply his brain with oxygen. When he thinks he's more or less in possession of his higher faculties, he says, “Pellinore? Lake Stables?”

“Yes, Merlin!” Arthur says, both of his hands landing square on Merlin's shoulders. “What else could I be talking about?”

“Dunno,” says Merlin, words coming blurred out of his mouth, heat working its way from his neck to his face. “You confused me.”

“I think I was pretty clear,” Arthur says, his mouth curving up at the edges.

Merlin steps back from Arthur, and his soft lips, to get some clarity. “It was the kiss part that was confusing,” he mumbles, not sure whether he wants Arthur to explain where they're at or leave it to avoid a bruised heart.

Arthur grabs him by the elbow. “The kiss part was obvious.”

A lopsided smile twists Merlin's face. “Er, no, it was really not, I understand rejoicing and celebratory snogs, which I reckon this was but--”

Arthur brings his mouth to Merlin's lips, softly increasing the pressure as he pulls Merlin in. The weight Merlin's been carrying in his chest since he and Arthur drifted apart eases. Merlin opens and Arthur's tongue slips past the seam of his lips.

Searching for support from his leering freefall, Merlin's hands fall to Arthur’s hips. Even though his heart beats out a scary rhythm, Merlin kisses Arthur just as Arthur kisses him, his mouth supple on his, the gentle, wet touch of Arthur's tongue lighting banked fires deep inside him.

When at last they stop, Arthur holds on to him by the hip, fingers splayed there, the tips of them hot through shirt and denim.

Arthur's voice is scratched and raw when he says, “Come to mine.”

Merlin knows that they ought to talk, smooth things out between them, but right now his thoughts are adrift in a sea of mush and all he actually wants is to pull Arthur closer and touch him. “Okay, all right,” he says, more breathless then he ought to be, “but wouldn't it be better if we went to mine?”

“I want to start fresh,” Arthur says, already urging him in the direction of the car. “My place has no associations and there's something I want to show you.”

Merlin sucks on his lower lip. “Um, okay then, I don't see why not.”

The drive to Pendragon Manor is surreal. Dying sunlight washes through the windscreen, lighting the top of Arthur's head so that his hair and skin shine in the ocre light.

As Arthur drives, Merlin can't help but look at him, his gaze stealing his way between an interval spent observing the view dashing past the window and the next.

When he's not using it to change gears or steer, Arthur flattens his palm on top Merlin's hand, his heat passing from his skin to Merlin's in some kind of osmosis pattern that warms his heart too.

The last stretch of road is winding and requires more careful, slower driving. But even though they touch less, Merlin feels cuddled by warmth all through it.

He can soak it all up from the air by virtue of having Arthur there.

At last though the drive is over. Arthur parks the car downhill behind the big house and uses the French windows instead the front door to enter.

He ushers Merlin into a drawing room that is open-plan and tidy, well-finished with sofa and loungers, the corners bathed in the violet colours of dusk, the centre still seeped in glowing sunlight turning to ember at the edges.

Past a second set of door they come by the atrium, covered in fine carpets and punctuated by columns as tall as Merlin, flower wases sitting on the smooth marble surface on top.

They've almost made the stairs, an ample set framed by a laquered white banister, when Uther Pendragon exits from one of the opposite corner rooms, closing the door behind him.

When he sees Arthur and Merlin, Uther Pendragon scowls, his mouth compressing. He stalks up to Arthur, who's been leading the way, and says, “Arthur, I just received a call from Mark Pellinore. He wanted to tell you how glad he is that you're buying Lake Stables.”

“Mr Pellinore called,” Arthur repeats, his mouth framing the words slowly just before dropping open.

“Yes, indeed,” Uther says, his eyes flashing. “I told him it couldn't be possible, that you weren't out to buy a damn business because you're going back to London to work at Pendragon, but he was quite adamant he had it right.”

Arthur gathers his fists closer to his body; the tendons in his neck shift as he swallows. “He does. He does have it right. I'm not going to London. I'm buying Lake and running it.”

Uther turns his head to the side to huff a laugh. When he faces Arthur again his face is set like flint. “Don't be ridiculous,” Uther says, fishing his mobile out of his pocket. “You'll call Pellinore, apologise for wasting his time and tell him that your love of horses led you to make a miguided promise you can't keep.”

“But I can and will,” says Arthur, chin out, head up. “I should have told you sooner, I acknowledge, at least as a matter of courtesy, but I'm not going back on this. I made my decision. I'm not going to spend my life in starched suits, strapped behind a desk.”

Uther's roaring voice nearly makes Merlin quake in his own boots (if he had boots, that is). The words appall him. “You'll do as I say.” A nerve around his right eye starts twitching. “You'll stop throwing tantrums and fucking obey, Arthur.”

“I'm not throwing a tantrum,” Arthur says, his voice going calmer the more Uther's rises. “I've chosen my own path: Merlin's here made me see my real passion.”

“Merlin--” Uther stalks up close to Arthur, his chest expanding. “What's the help got to do with anything?”

“He made me see that horses weren't just a hobby for me,” Arthur quickly says, his cheeks hollowing in dismay, as if he's sucking in a gasp of contempt. “And he's not the help, he's...” Arthur pauses, his voice flexes in his throat, sweetening while it goes from high to low. “He's someone I love, so you'll bear him respect.”

At Arthur's statement Merlin's body starts to feel like tinder about to burst into flames. His legs go hollow and his lungs squeeze tight in his chest as if he has no more capacity for breathing. He'd bask in the soft twilight of well-being Arthur's words opened up for him if Uther hadn't started speaking again, words that set Merlin on the path to anger.

“This is preposterous!” Uther shouts, his Adam's apple taking a sharp plunge. “You'll do as I say. You'll pack tonight to go to London, take the position I marked out for you and dump this little piece of upstart shit.” He indicates Merlin. “I won't abide anything el--”

Fury lapping at the fringes of his good sense, Merlin takes a step forward and pushes Mr Pendragon back and away from Arthur. “Okay, fine, you wanted it like this,” he says, defying prudence. “You may call me names as much as you like, but what you won't do is bully Arthur for his choices. He wants to do this and he should be able to without you guilt-tripping him into quitting.” Merlin's whole body surges forward and this brings him face to face with Pendragon. “His dreams are worth more than any of your dictatorial rants because your son is actually worth ten of you.”

“Not financially,” Uther says, his head cocked so that he can ignore Merlin and address Arthur. “I won't give you a penny. Buy Lake Stables and you'll be broke.”

“We'll see that,” Arthur responds, his shoulders widening. “I did learn a thing or two studying business.”

“Don't epext to be welcomed back if you take this step,” Uther spits out, holding a cautionary finger up. “If you do, I'll cut you off, cast you out.”

“I wouldn't want to be welcomed back by a man who can't accept my choices,” Arthur says, nostrils flaring, “or the man I love. Now--” Arthur takes Merlin's hand and leads him towards the stairs, “I'll go get my things and move out.”

“You'll end up a beggar,” Uther calls out from the foot of the stairs, while Arthur drags Merlin up towards the first floor. “And your friend is sacked.”

The loss of his job doesn't shake Merlin as much as Arthur's clammy touch does, the tremor in his fingers.

When he closes the door of his bedroom behind him, Arthur sags against it, head down. He palms his forehead while shaking his head.

Merlin starts for him, not knowing whether he should touch him or not. In the end he goes for forgoing claps on the back and saying, “I'm so sorry that happened.”

Arthur breathes loudly through his nostrils. “It was a long time coming.”

“That doesn't make it any easier,” Merlin says, his voice coming out soft and oozing sadness, this big core of it he feels for Arthur.

Arthur straightens his head in a way that indicates he's paying attention to Merlin. His tongue washes over his lips, and he releases a heavy sigh. “I was a coward for such a long time. I was unhappy with things and did nothing to change them even if I knew all it would take was facing him.”

This time Merlin wraps a hand around Arhur's shoulder. “I don't think that comes easy. He's family.”

Arthur nods, his cheeks filling and emptying of air, his lips puckering, his eyes getting a shiny sheen. “I still didn't do what I should,” he says, reflective, resigned. “I knew I didn't want the life he'd cut out for me, but I kept telling myself: do it, just do it. So I kept choosing the faculty he wanted, sitting exams, handing in papers. I went through the process...”

“And then you found yourself about to actually start the life he'd chosen for you and baulked,” Merlin concludes, understanding why Arthur had postponed acting till now.

“No.” Arthur shakes his head. “It was you, you and your passion for horses, and how happy you were being a groom. You gave me the last shove in the right direction.”

Merlin's mouth quivers, neither flattening nor quirking. “Now, I'm feeling guilty.”

“No,” Arthur says, grabbing him by the arm and manhandling him into a hug. “No, you... You were inspirational and...”

“You're making me go all mushy,” Merlin says, wrapping his own arms around Arthur, sniffling a bit.

“And I'm sorry my father sacked you,” Arthur adds, his hold becoming much stronger. “You can come work at Lake, though I can't gurantee I won't fail.”

Merlin leans into the touch, hope unfettering his body and making him feel as though he's floating free. “You'll succeed. I have faith in you, Arthur.”

Arthur steps out of the embrace. “You don't have to... I mean I know what I told my father -- that I care for you -- and I know my words probably made you feel responsible for what I did. But you don't have to be with me or work with me or...”

Merlin shuts Arthur up with a swift kiss that gentles around Arthur's lips a few seconds in. “Whenever have I said or done something I didn't want?”

“So...” Arthur's lips push together in a pout, his eyes sparking lighter. “So you do want to be with me...”

“Yes,” Merlin says, sucking another kiss on Arthur's lips. “Yes.”

Arthur's quick packing. He takes a small fat folder from a drawer and puts it in a sportsbag together with toiletries, a book, and a couple of changes of clothing. He doesn't throw his childhood room any last looks before leaving it.

Uther doesn't show up to bid his son goodbye. Overnight bag slung across his chest, Arthur makes his way to the car at a swift pace, jaw set. Merlin trots after him.

“I'll drop you at yours,” Arthur says, searching his pockets for his car keys. “Then I'll go looking for a B&B.”

Merlin plants his hands on the roof of Arthur's car. “I hope you're joking. You're staying at mine.”

Arthur grimaces. “Merlin, my father threw me out. I don't know how long it's going to take me to find a place. I can't hijack your sofa that long.”

Merlin smiles, pouring his heart into this one grin. “You're right, you shouldn't be hijacking my sofa.”

Arthur casts his eyes down and toys with his key.

“You should be hijaacking my bed.”

 

****

 

Arthur closes the drawer with a thunk, storing Ygraine's book of photos and drawings. “Are you sure I can use this?”

“My spare drawer?” Merlin says, shedding his jumper. “Sure. It's not as if I have all this stuff I can't find a place for.”

“You know what I mean.” Arthur says, turning around, leaning his back against the chest of drawers. “It seems metaphorical.”

Merlin toes off his shoes and wiggles his toes. “Of what, exactly...”

“I bet that when you woke this morning you didn't know you'd get a broke guest likely to sofa surf for the foreseeable future.”

Merlin goes over to Arthur, one of his hands fanning his side, his face level with Arthur's. He says, “I didn't know this would happen, no. But I'm happy you're here. You can stay as long as you want.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, chest rising, “this may be a little different from what you were expecting. It's not like this was planned. I don't know if I'll be able to contribute to the rent just yet. Once I've paid for Lake I'll be at the end of my rope.”

“I know that,” Merlin says, nuzzling his face to Arthur's. “And I don't mind. I like you. Rich or poor, for the person you are.”

Arthur's eyes are suffused with light. They shine so hot and open as he shows his affection for Merlin that Merlin's mouth goes a tad dry, as if he's wandered wildernesses.

Encouraged by Arthur's gaze, Merlin wraps his fingers around the base of Arthur's neck, moving closer for a kiss. He nips at the curve of Arthur's upper lip, slow and sensual, Arthur starting, a frisson-like surge, under the push of Merlin's lips.

The moment they touch, Arthur sucks in a sharp breath that sounds like a punch. He cocks his head, changing the fit of their lips, and cradles Merlin's face, the warmth of his palm seeping into Merlin's skin, spreading a heat-blush on Merlin's cheeks and tripping up his riotous heart-beat.

Coming a bit unmoored, his body shaking with want, Merlin slips his hand under Arthur's shirt. His mouth at the corner of Arthur’s, Merlin ghosts the pads of his fingers across Arthur's stomach, muscles rippling at the touch.

Though he's been perfectly all right with having zero sex for months, the need to touch Arthur steamrolls over him, irresistible like a hot avalanche he can't stave off and that leaves him under, searching for breath. His throat nearly stops up when Arthur brushes his thumb along the edge of Merlin's cheekbone.

Starting on a circuitous journey towards the bed, they shift around the room.

On their way over, they tug at each other's clothes, Merlin lifting Arthur's shirt, Arthur yanking off Merlin's jumper, the both of them working at their belts, arms crossing, hands slipping to palm their cocks either through fabric or past it.

They gasp in each other's mouths, the fugitive touches not enough to satisfy, their cocks fattening as thumbs brush past, their legs tangling together as they wander over. Their chests heaving, the last of their clothes come off right before Merlin presses Arthur onto his bed.

Arthur sinks easily, a whoosh of sheets and duvet accompanying the motion.

A hand on his belly, the other on the mattress next to Arthur, Merlin kneels on the bed, his thighs bracketing Arthur's flanks. They radiate heat, a shock of human body-warmth that steals the breadth from Merlin.

With a flex of his abs, Arthur leans forward and mashes their mouths together, their kiss rawer than the one that went before with Merlin licking into Arthur's mouth and Arthur giving back with just as much passion.

Merlin soaks it all up, treacle expanding through his veins, till everything is slow, a heavy languor lapping at his body in the same tempo as the pulse he can feel in his cock.

Arthur moves his lips over Merlin's chin and up his jaw, leaving wet trails where his mouth goes, his lips soft when they graze his neck or when they trace his collarbones, pressing kisses along the length of it and nips along the round arc of his shoulder.

In the wake of his lips, Arthur drags his thumb along the curve of the bone, where it protrudes the most, and Merlin groans, his hands roaming Arthur's arms and upper chest.

Letting Merlin slide between them, Arthur spreads his legs.

Pushing Arthur back down, Merlin uses his mouth on his torso, finding a nipple, kissing it. With each and every moan that Arthur releases, Merlin finds his purpose, kissing, licking, until he feels Arthur's nipples harden and his breaths deepen. He bucks upward.

"Merlin."

As he moves his tongue in circles around Arthur's nipple, Merlin palms Arthur's cock. It's hot to the touch, fever hot.

Arthur's thighs quiver; his hands stroke the planes of Merlin's back in broad swipes. His hands up curl up in Merlin's hair, tugging at it when the kiss Merlin puts to his ribs silences Arthur, no sounds coming from his open mouth.

Arthur yanking at his hair, Merlin curls his fingers around Arthur, squeezing the sides of his cock before slipping his hand lower and cupping his balls. Arthur's eyelashes flutter, a fan of bronze gold dust coming down.

Taking him in looking like that, Merlin's heart stutters.

Arthur's yielding phase doesn't last long.

He angles Merlin's chin up to look at him, his other hand low on Merlin's stomach, turning Merlin's insides to a puddle.

When Merlin begins kneading Arthur's cock, pulling harder, Arthur clenches his teeth.

The sounds Merlin makes, revealing his appreciation of the state Arthur's in, looking undone, come from the back of his throat too.

Arthur takes a hold of Merlin's hip, rolling his hips. His surging and Merlin's bearing down bring their cocks into peregrine conract. Merlin's whole body snaps taut, jolts of pleasure travelling up his spine.

"Okay, condoms," he says, when he realises he won't be able to indulge in heavy foreplay much longer.

"Yeah, it's high time," Arthur pants, his torso filling and emptying with every breath he takes, his skin flushed like a ripe pepper. "Yeah, you top."

Merlin doesn't need to be told twice. His trip to the bathroom to retrieve supplies is of short duration. Before a minute has elapsed he's back on the bed, which is hot with Arthur's body warmth, Arthur looking softly at him and welcoming him back with a swift kiss and a loopy smile.

Heart fluttering like a banner in a gale, Merlin inches back between Arthur's legs.

Arthur guides Merlin's hands, finding the path for him, letting him sleek him up.

Penetrating Arthur with his fingers while Arthur opens himself for him is so intimate Merlin isn't sure he can bear it without cracking inside and spilling out all the love he has for Arthur.

He isn't sure he can do this without telling Arthur how much he loves him and how much he wants to protect him from pain, loss, hardship, the works.

In his sensual delirium he must have said some of that, because Arthur says, "Hey, don't worry about me, I'm fine... Couldn't feel better than I am now."

"Is that--" Merlin's breath stutters when Arthur gasps at the scrape of Merlin's fingers against his prostate. "Is that an euphemism?"

"It might--" Arthur bites his shoulder, sharp as a pinprick, leaving the trace of an indentation there. "It might turn into something else if you don't hurry up and fuck me, Merlin."

Condom on, Merlin enters Arthur slowly, his own body a fine tremble, Arthur's shivers echoing his, their breaths coming fast but at disparate times, so the room is filled with discordant symphony of pants.

As Arthur adjusts, swallows, Merlin rests his forehead against his temple, taking all in, how unbearable being inside Arthur is... Unbearable in the good way, the way that undoes you and shatters you in little pieces so that you can't find the fragments of you that you let scatter.

It's so good, it's killing him.

When Merlin starts moving, Arthur makes a desperate noise and clutches at his back, his fingers knotting up Merlin's muscles and digging in the bunched up flesh. It hurts and it's a fine distraction from the engulfing sensations, sharp and like oncoming waves, that hit him each time Arthur meets him in a counterpoint to all his motions.

As Merlin's body works on top of Arthur's in a surge and release that starts low with his buttocks and hips, shoulders heaving, Arthur rubs his thumb over Merlin's cheekbone, a favourite spot of his, then goes back to kiss him, slow as their rhythm, his tongue brushing deep into Merlin's mouth.

Wet, sucking noises and harsh breaths rise like waves into the silence of Merlin's bedroom.

When Merlin can no longer continue at this slow pace, Arthur hook his arm around his shoulder, and quickens his own tempo.

Merlin buries his face in the curve of Arthur’s neck, his lower body snapping forward in sharp, staccato jabs, his heart filling and filling, growing in his chest till it squeezes his lungs and Merlin's left with no more breath, only the burn in his muscles and the heat that pools low within him.

And then he's finally, blessedly releasing it. When orgasm comes, he shudders so hard his jaw locks.

Bones feeling like they're made of a rubbery substance, Merlin slumps on top of Arthur, cradled by him, his breath puffing out on Arthur's chest, and ruffling the fine golden hair scattered across his pecs.

A feeling of honeyed well being that spreads through his body fills him. It lasts until Arthur's says, "Uh, that was good but--" He shifts, his cock poking at Merlin's skin, erect and red, glans peeking out past the retracted foreskin.

"Oh," Merlin says, feeling himself flush all across the board. "Right, you haven't."

Slipping down the bed a notch, Merlin wraps his hand around Arthur, stroking till Arthur's squirting so much pre-come, drop after drop, the slide is easy. He twists his wrist, pressing two of his fingers under the flaring head of Arthur's wet prick. Arthur's body twitches and tenses, the muscles in his thigh leaping.

"Good, is it?" Merlin asks before letting his mouth close around Arthur's cock, tasting the sharp taste of him. He swirls his tongue around, gives Arthur a sharp suck.

Arthur's belly muscles clench tight under Merlin's palm, fluttering like a wave, a tall roller, tiny hairs standing on end. Arthur spurts acrid come in his mouth, and Merlin leaves off, Arthur's cock bobbing free, just in time to see the look of pain mixed with wonder that shadows Arthur's face like a cloud scuttling past.

Before sinking next to Arthur, Merlin wipes at his chin with his mouth.

"Clean up?" Arthur asks once he's settled, voice lethargic.

Merlin nods, humming low as he smiles gleefully, the mirth coming from deep within him as he watches the sleepy smile defining Arthur's face. "I'll go get a towel."

On his way to the bathroom, Merlin pauses by the living room. He stares at his phone set for a full half minute before he dials BT directory enquiries hoping Elena's listed.

It takes him so long Arthur's snores come reverberating from the other room.

 

****

 

Elena's boots sink into the mud, little squishy bubbles forming on either side of her soles, but she doesn't even seem to notice. Her clipboard in hand, she bounds ahead, saying, “And of course I want you to take a look at that Arabian Lord Monmouth is selling.”

Merlin carefully walks around the mud puddle Elena stepped right into. “So you are really thinking of breeding for selling?”

Elena holds her pen aloft to illustrate her point. “Lord Monmouth is a numpty. He doesn't know what he's got.” Elena grins, even as wisps of her hair are being blown in her face. “And yes, I want to do what he's not doing.”

Merlin chews his lower lip. “Do you think Arthur will agree?”

“I don't see why he wouldn't,” Elena says, her brow getting tiny creases as she thinks the question over. “The horse farm is doing well. Your medieval trick riding shows are making money and we're so much better off than we were six months ago. I think he'll like my plans.”

Merlin is not part of the business side of Arthur and Elena's enterprise and not the one meant to take the eventual decision, but he does like Elena's plan. “So you're not regretting investing in Lake Farm?”

“Regretting it?” Elena makes a funny face, going bug-eyed on purpose. “Joining you lads in this fantastic, no, glorious enterprise, was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Merlin feels a smile coming on. “Well, it's been great working for you and Arthur.”

Elena bumps their hips together, nearly sending Merlin sprawling. “I bet you enjoy working with Arthur more.”

Before the blush can overtake his face, a diversion occurs that saves Merlin from experiencing some serious embarrassment. A horse transport, consisting of a bumper-pull trailer attached to a compact MPV, slowly rumbles up the drive.

“Holy horse shit, what in the bleeding hell is that?” Elena asks, jogging up the path. “Now I may be a tick absent-minded but I'm positive we didn't rent a transport.”

Merlin wonders the exact same thing, until that is, Arthur hops down from the driver side of the MPV.

Taking a leaf out of Elena's book, Merlin runs up to him. “Hey,” he says, smiling widely, “what's with the transport?”

Arthur grabs Merlin by the neck and plants a purposefully wet kiss on his cheek, which Merlin shies away from because Elena is there and he doesn't want to enact a completely drippy love scene. They can do that in private.

“Well,” Arthur says, messing Merlin's hair up by way of a rap on the head. “Come have a look.”

Merlin and Elena follow Arthur to the back of the vehicle. Arthur opens the door securing it shut to reveal a horse.

“You bought a new mount?” Elena asks, squinting at the horse that's neighing in the shadows of the van.

“You'll have to wait and see to find out,” Arthur says, lowering the ramp in the rear of the horse box and opening the metal partition penning the animal in. Leading it by the bridle, he guides the horse down the metal ramp, its hooves clapping against the hard inclined surface.  
Though it's been a year, Merlin doesn't strain to recognise that particular horse. He might be taller and his muscles might have filled out to make of him a really powerful mount, but Merlin knows him without a doubt to be the same horse he helped bring into the world.

More than a little choked up, throat feeling as clogged up as when he had the mumps, Merlin says, “Griflet.”

Griflet recognises him too, because he tugs on his lead, forcing Arthur to advance and, ears flicking, makes for Merlin, putting his muzzle on his shoulder.

Merlin's heart opens like a flower in spring. Without hesitation he tangles his fingers in Griflet's mane and scratches him behind one ear. The petting happens to the sound of contented neighing. “How did you you even manage this?” he asks Arthur, his nose buried in the horse's neck.

Arthur smiles and says, “I drove to Pendragon Manor and asked to meet my father.”

“Oh, Arthur,” says Elena with a little gasp that's only hiding a wince. “I thought you hadn't spoken to him in months.”

Merlin looks to Arthur. He'd thought much the same. “Arthur?”

“That's true,” Arthur confirms, clapping a hand on Griflet's rump. “I thought I never wanted to see him again but I found out that wasn't quite true.”

Merlin lets go of Griflet to come over to Arthur and touch his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Arthur tips his head back proudly, eyes full of self assurance. “More than. I walked up to his desk, told him that I was doing great without his help and dropped a cheque on his table.”

“You paid for Griflet?” Merlin asks, his question mirroring Elena's squawk.

“I wouldn't have wanted a present from him anyway,” Arthur says, rolling his shoulders in a gesture that is similar to a shrug but looks more like Arthur's just relieved himself of a burden, the underlying tension that had been weighing him down. “And since I know how much you missed Griflet...”

Merlin moves. He twines his hands in Arthur's hair and draws him close. His mouth clings to Arthur's in a kiss that tugs on every string of his heart, as if it's a bundle and it's spilling open, all its contents scattering outwards, to pump his blood faster through his veins, till heat spreads all over Merlin.

At the touch, Arthur gasps, but then he recovers from the surprise and starts caressing Merlin's lips with his, his mouth slipping back and forth over Merlin's. He only draws back when Merlin's lips tingle. Arthur doesn't back off completely though; his lips trace his forehead as he asks, “So do you honestly like your present,?”

Merlin can't really believe that Arthur would think him any less than fully and utterly happy, so ecstatic that he's really undone. “You can't really think I don't?”

“No, I knew you were really fond of that horse, that I had no doubt of,” Arthur says, gently stroking the back of Merlin's neck with his fingers, which feels simply delicious. “But I wanted to pull off a better one and get Black Beauty too, but Father wanted too much for both, I suspect to make a point about his financial security compared to mine, and since we're just starting here at Lake I just couldn't shell out what he wanted so--”

Merlin grabs Arthur by the nape, tipping his head back so they can look each other in the eye. It doesn't matter if his heart flutters when their gazes do meet and that he can't look or sound stern however much he tries, he still attempts to get his point across. “You've done a brilliant thing here. There's no topping this present and you know it. So don't blame yourself because--” Merlin's vision gets a tad misty. “You've just broken my heart here.”

“I sincerely hope not,” says Arthur low and a bit husky, his lower lip skimming Merlin's upper one.

Elena coughs. “Erm, hello, boys, I'm still here.”

Merlin steps back with a laugh and Arthur's lips form in a pout.  
( Griflet paws at the ground, snorting and trying to face back around so he can butt his head against Merlin's flank.

“I guess he wants to be ridden,” Arthur's says, rich laughter tinkling out of his mouth. “I say you give him a chance.”

“Yes, Merlin,” says Elena, sliding her arm round his neck and turning him around so Merlin's in a prime position to mount, “I think he's been missing you.”

“But I've never ridden him before!” Merlin says, pointing out a detail Arthur and Elena may have forgotten. “He was too young to take the saddle when I worked at Pendragon.”

“He's not too young now.”

Griflet nuzzles his chest, making Merlin laugh. “Okay, okay, you win,” he says, ruffling Griflet's forelock. “I just need a saddle.”

It's Arthur who saddles Griflet for him, Griflet obediently taking the weight. And it's Elena who talks Merlin out of his nerves, making him laugh and telling him what a gentle rider he's always been, stressing how much love there is between him and Griflet and how that always works out well when it comes to riding. So it's only with a little bit of trepidation that he slides his foot in the stirrup.

When he does, Griflet sidesteps and then settles.

“Okay, we're going on a little walk, like in the old days,” Merlin says, leaning over to pat the horse's neck, reins in hand. “Only this time, you're carrying me. Alright?”

Griflet only pushes air out of his nostrils.

“Okay, let's go.”

With a nudge from Merlin's knees, Griflet heads down the main path at an easy clip, his gait so smooth and solid Merlin can already tell what a good mount he is and how much joy they're going to get out of this ride.

The canopy of trees extending over the track lets sunshine trickle over Merlin while allowing for some shade as well, the shadows projecting odd shapes on Griflet's tan, muscled flesh and across the skin of Merlin's bare hands.

Griflet's long stride eating up the ground, the countryside opens up, green and rolling, beautiful as it hasn't been all through winter.

Sunshine flares bright and warm in Merlin's face, light shining down on the fields, grass blades blown this way and that. The wind plays with his hair, whipping at his shirt, filling the excess fabric as if it's a canvas sail. It tickles him and makes him laugh. “Want to go for a gallop?” he asks Griflet now than he has the measure of him, of his abilities to bear a rider.

The horse's muscles straining for speed, Merlin decides to indulge Griflet. With a sharper bump of his knees than the one that set Griflet into a canter, he cues him to speed up.

And then Griflet is flying, thrusting his head rhythmically ahead, Merlin sliding to the back of the saddle and leaning low, the wind snapping around him, catching at his clothes, sunlight filling his veins with summer warmth.

The countryside blurs past him; the sky is filled with dappled clouds, grey and white, lined with orange at the sides. Hooves flash beyond at the edges of his field of vision, Griflet's speed mounting.

Merlin's never been happier before.


End file.
